Over the Edge
by Tipper
Summary: It should have been a simple prisoner transport to Blue River, but now Vin and Buck are missing and Ezra doesn't remember anything, not even his own name. Can Chris, Josiah and Nathan put his memory back together in time to save the others?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: OVER THE EDGE  
Author: Tipper  
Disclaimer: The Magnificent Seven is owned by a lot of other people, not me.  
Length: Ten Chapters  
A/N: Written for Sablecain and Violette. And thanks to Tidia for the ideas and NT for proofing.**

 **Description: It should have been a simple prisoner transport, but now Vin and Buck are missing and Ezra can't remember anything, not even his own name.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE: FALLING DOWN**

He staggered, confused, disoriented, trying to recall where he was going.

Possibly, north. Or east. If he could just get his bearings, he was sure he could figure it out.

He'd awoken to rain and darkness, his head pounding and his eyesight blurred. Somewhere nearby, a horse had whinnied, plaintive. He'd tried to find it, but his blindness had caused him to turn an ankle, and then stumble down some sort of hill. Before he understood what was happening, he'd slipped and started to roll, colliding with trees and rocks that seemed hell-bent on breaking his back or his arms and legs. When he had finally slid to a stop on a muddy incline, he couldn't hear the horse anymore.

He'd lain there for god knows how long before getting up again, knowing that it was too dangerous to stay like that.

Still unable to see clearly, he tried to climb up the hill he'd come down, moving from tree to tree, trying to find his way back to the horse. It couldn't be far. He just had to remember where he'd been.

Where _had_ he been?

Then, without warning, the hill vanished beneath his feet. He'd stepped into thin air—a cliff, a hole, he didn't know. He'd had just enough time to panic when the ground stopped him hard and fast, and that was all he knew.

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 _Western Union Telegram_

 _Received at: Four Corners, AZ October 12, 1874 10:23 am_

 _Larabee. Prisoner expected this morning not arrived. No sign of your men. Sheriff Donnelly._

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Dawn was long broken when he woke the second time, chasing away some of the shadows in his eyes. His vision was spotty, but he could make out trees and a stream—he was at the bottom of some sort of ravine. Every bruise and strain made itself known as he slowly gathered himself up. He cried out when his wrist spasmed and collapsed, his fingers suddenly refusing to work. More by feel than by sight, he knew it was swollen—broken or sprained, he didn't know. He cradled it for a while, rubbing at the ache while he tried to get his bearings.

The ravine was cool, wet, and empty of horses or explanation.

Kneeling again, he washed his face, scraping dried, caked blood off his skin, and it helped some with his eyesight. On his feet, he wobbled a little before choosing a direction. Downhill this time, he chose, following the flow of the water. He couldn't take another bad fall; dumb luck was all that had kept him alive and intact this far.

Over time, the headache receded and his vision cleared up. The ravine faded, revealing arid fields of long grass and low cacti. The rocky brook he'd been following leveled out, moving steadily westward.

He followed the stream for a while, appreciative of the water. When he came across a dirt road rutted with wagon tracks and horse hooves, though, he stopped. It seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on why. What was obvious, though, was that civilization existed somewhere along it.

He decided south was the way to go, towards the warmer fields rather than the cooler woods of the northerly direction. It felt right to him. But then the road had turned east and started to rise again, and he felt less confident. He'd stopped and turned around, heading back the way he'd come.

Minutes, possibly hours, had passed since then, and he was still following the road, knowing that he'd seen it before, believing he was heading in the right direction, but still unclear as to where it was he was going. He ached for a sign, some sort of landmark, something that could help him understand where he was.

Another stream crossed the road and he decided to stop. His head felt heavy, his wrist was numb, and his ankle was aching. A short nap and he'd be on his way again.

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 _Western Union Telegram_

 _Received at Four Corners, AZ October 13, 1874 8:25 am_

 _Larabee. Still no sign of prisoner or your men. Search party ready to move out. Sheriff Donnelly._

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Somehow, he'd lost time. He wasn't sure how, but it was morning again. Was this the same place where he'd stopped? It didn't look the same. Hadn't there been a stream? He got to his feet again, swaying, and looked at the empty road, empty land, empty everything. Where the hell was he?

He felt a rumble below his feet and looked down at the ground. He understood the sensation for what it was—horses were coming—but was that bad? He backed up to one side and tried to decide if he should hide. Something inside screamed for him to run, but his feet didn't move.

Instead, he waited.

Three horses charged up the road towards him. In the lead, a white man on a big black horse pulled hard on the reins in front of him, fighting against his large mount as they skidded to a stop. The other two stopped in kind; the black man in the rear leapt off a still dancing dark sorrel horse to jog towards him.

"Ezra! What the hell!" the white man on the black horse yelled, not dismounting, sounding angry and worried simultaneously. How peculiar. "What the hell happened to you? Where are the others?"

The black man, meanwhile, was suddenly right in front of him. "Are you alright?" he asked, reaching to take an arm. "Let me see."

Instinct finally won over, and he stepped back, his good hand weakly going for a gun that wasn't there. The black man stopped his actions, brow furrowing in confusion.

"What's the matter?" the stranger asked. "You know I ain't gonna hurt ya."

The other two had dismounted now, walking up to him, and he continued to back away. He didn't know who they were or what they wanted. He lifted a hand, wanting them to stop.

"Stay back," he whispered hoarsely, his voice unfamiliar to his ears.

"Son," the largest of the three said as he stopped, his voice low and quiet, "what's going on?"

"Ezra," the blond white man said the name authoritatively like it should mean something. "Quit playing. Where are Buck, Vin and the prisoner?"

"I…" He swallowed, his voice coarse as sandpaper. "I don't know."

"How can you not…?" The man frowned. "Then where did you leave them? How far away?"

He just blinked, feeling even more confused. "What?"

"Ezra," the black man called, and he frowned at him, confused as to this man's closeness. "Can you tell me what's wrong with you?"

He ignored the question, choosing to stumble backwards another few steps to get more distance, and asked, "Why…why do you want to know?"

That earned an arched brow from the black stranger. "Because you're hurt, why else?"

"I'm fine."

"You're covered in blood, Ez. Plus you've no hat, that coat's barely holding together, and, no joke, but you look like something the cat dragged in. So, how about you let me look you over."

He just frowned more as the world swayed slightly. "I said, I'm fine."

At that, the blond man made started towards him again, looking angry, but the black man shot out an arm, stopping him.

"Wait. Something's off with him."

"You think so?" the blond asked sarcastically. Still, he didn't move as the black man took a couple cautious steps forward, wearing a small smile, his arm outstretched, palm up.

"Your arm," the stranger said, "the one you're holding to your chest, it's hurting, right?"

"It's just bruised," he replied warily, not wanting to give up how bad it was.

"No, that's no bruise, now. Come on, let me see."

A flash came to him then, the words triggering something, and he saw this man smiling at him in a tent, kindly and almost warmly. " _That's no bruise, now…"_ Pain, he'd been in pain, radiating down his arm in waves, and he couldn't move it. This man had taken his arm, and with a quick, fast pull, had fixed it. And then he'd smiled. " _Just like I thought, you dislocated it. Might be sore for a little while, but at least you have two hands to cheat at cards with."_

He shook his head, the memory fleeting but leaving a sense of well-being. When the man finally reached him, to gently take the arm he'd been holding to his chest—the one with the broken wrist—he let him. Soon, the same man was grimacing in sympathy.

"Ya broke it, alright. We'll need to set it."

He felt the fight drain out of him then, and he conceded. "Okay."

After he said that, the black man gestured at the older of the two white men, and called for his bag. It all seemed very familiar.

"I know you, don't I?" he asked then, trying to break through the gray in his mind and to still the trembling nerves running through his body.

The black man looked up from his wrist, eyes wide. He covered quickly with a gentle smile, that same as the one in the memory.

"You do," he said carefully. "You know all of us."

He just stared, trying to comprehend that.

The kind man frowned then. "You don't remember?"

"No."

"What do you remember?"

"Um…" He considered that for a moment, then answered, "Falling down a hill?"

The black man simply smiled, like one would at a child. He let go the wrist and stepped back.

"That's not really what I meant." He hesitated, then asked, "I…what I meant was, do you know who you are?"

He frowned at that. What a stupid question. "Of course, I'm...I'm…."

But nothing came to mind.

"Oh god," he said. "Oh my god." He looked at each of them, wanting to recognize them, knowing they recognized him. "This is not possible…" Panic swelled inside like a tidal wave. He pulled away, staggering away from the three men, tripping over a rock and feeling the pain in his damaged ankle like it was on fire. It seemed to cause his whole body to break out in sweat and nausea, fueling the panic to even greater heights. "I don't know my name. Why don't I know my name?" His breath quickened inside his bruised frame.

"Ezra, calm down," the black man said, raising his hands in an obvious attempt to seem harmless. "Your name is Ezra. You've just hit your head. It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Meaningless. Those words were meaningless. He didn't know who he was! He didn't know what was happening or why. The black man and the large white man continued to stalk him, and he continued to avoid them. The third man, the blond who'd spoken first, had turned away, as if too sickened to look upon him. He was glaring up the road that he had stumbled down. Ezra followed his gaze, and something flashed in his mind, a glimpse of a man with long, light brown hair laughing astride a horse, a campsite, an argument…

A gunshot.

The answers had to be back up the road he'd come down! "I have to go," he said, turning to stumble in that direction.

"Wait, don't," the black man called, reaching to grab him, but he jumped back with a yell and tried to get back to the road, to go back the way he'd come. The large man circled him, and Ezra tripped and skirted around them, trying to find escape.

"Leave me alone!" he begged, desperate now. "Go away!" They'd stop him from going up back up the road. He had to go back! The horse—wherever that horse was that he'd first heard. The answers had to be there. He just had to-

"Ezra, look out!"

He tripped over a tree-branch as thick as his leg, fire burst up his leg from his hurt ankle, and his legs stopped working. Only the incredibly fast reflexes of the black man stopped him from hitting the ground, but as soon as the man's arms gripped his aching ribs, setting his chest afire with even more pain, he screamed as the world went black.

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 _Western Union Telegram_

 _Received at Blue River, AZ October 13, 1874 9:15 am_

 _Sheriff Donnelly. Larabee, Jackson and Sanchez are already searching. We will be in touch. Sheriff Dunne._

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TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N - thank you guys so much! I'd forgotten how much I love getting reviews!

 **OVER THE EDGE  
** **By TIPPER**

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 **CHAPTER TWO: LOOKING FOR ANSWERS**

Nathan shook his head as he catalogued all the bruises and injuries Ezra sported, amazed the man was even alive much less had been standing a minute ago.

"How is he?" Chris asked, stalking back and forth in the background like a cornered tiger.

"Bad," was all Nathan was willing to say as he unbuttoned Ezra's muddy shirt. "He's taken a hell of a beating. There's so much blood matted into his hair, I'm having a hard time finding the source. Might be more than one." He looked across Ezra's sleeping form to Josiah, who was sliding Ezra's boot back on.

"Wasn't robbed," the preacher informed. "Money roll is still his boot." He looked at Nathan. "Ankle's badly swollen but there's a pulse in his foot." The healer nodded in thanks.

"So the prisoner did this to him?" Chris said.

Nathan frowned. "I don't know yet. Some of it, maybe. But he also said he fell down a hill, so-" He stopped talking and emitted a curse as he saw the mass of purple mottling Ezra's torso. "My god, where do these bruises stop?" His frown deepened as he trailed the pattern down to the belt of his pants. "How was he walking around with all this?"

"Sheer stubbornness," Josiah noted, resting back on his haunches. "A trait our brother has in spades, as we all know."

"Sheer stupidity more like. He's probably worsened the damage."

"I need something, Nathan," Chris growled. "You have to be able to tell me something of what happened to him. Could help us find the others."

Nathan clicked his tongue and inspected Ezra's head again, trying to be as gentle as possible when Ezra's features pinched at the touch. Near the back on the right, there was a deep gash—not from someone falling. He grimaced; it had to have hurt like hell when Ezra woke up from it.

"Near as I can tell," he said, gently putting Ezra's head down, "someone clobbered him, and hard. Most of his injuries—broken wrist, cracked ribs, bruises—are on his left side could be consistent with a bad fall, but the biggest wound on his head is on the right side. Doesn't make any sense unless—"

"Someone hit him," Chris finished grimly. "Then the prisoner got free."

Nathan looked up as Chris's shadow drew over them, recognizing the concern there despite Chris's efforts to hide it.

"Will he be alright?" Chris asked softly.

Nathan could only shrug. "If we're careful, maybe." He looked at Ezra again. "Some of these bruises on his body are deep, but I think if he were bleeding inside, he'd be dead already. We just need to keep an eye on him."

"What about his memory?"

He sighed. "I'm not sure. I mean, I've read about this sort of thing happening after a blow to the head, but not seen it."

"But he'll get it back?"

Nathan hesitated. This was the question he'd been dreading. He finally just shook his head. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Sometimes they don't."

Chris growled a curse. "He's the only one that knows where the others are."

"I know," Nathan replied. But what could he do?

"Can he ride?" Chris asked then.

Nathan shut his eyes, lowering his head. "He shouldn't."

"Not what I asked."

All the things that could go wrong ran rampant through Nathan's mind, impossible to ignore. Medical journal articles, doctor's theses and everything else he'd ever read about caring for a patient warred with what he was being asked.

"Could be dangerous out in the open," Chris explained. "And I'm assuming he needs water."

Nathan sucked in a nervous breath.

"I'll make sure he won't get too jostled," Josiah said then, reaching over to touch Nathan's hand. "I'll carry him with me on Quincy. As long as we don't go too fast, the ride will be as gentle as a wide ship on a calm ocean."

Nathan looked at his friend, measuring the earnestness in that gaze. He sighed and looked up at Chris.

"How far do you need us to go?"

"Not far. There's a ravine a few miles up, a little ways back from the road. There will be fresh water, plenty of wood, shelter inside the rocks... If someone has hurt him, that someone could still be around. You can protect him better there."

"Us? What about you?"

"There's a few campsites that I know of further up the road, over the crest of the next hill. They probably bedded down in one of them. There's no way Ezra could have walked much farther than that in this state. I'll go scout 'em—see if I can figure out where he came from."

Josiah frowned. "You sure you want to be on your own? If something did happen to the other two, it might be best to—"

"I'll be fine," Chris stated with finality, already walking away, his spurs jangling. "Go slow. Take care of him and make him remember."

Nathan just frowned again as Chris rode off, not liking any of this. He started buttoning Ezra's shirt back up. Josiah stood up to go get Quincy ready for the double load.

"I just don't understand how this could have happened," Nathan said finally, unable to keep his frustration out of his voice. "It should have been a simple prisoner transport—just one guy who looked about as harmless as JD. Hell, Ez didn't even need to go with them, he just wanted a break from town. What could've gone wrong?"

Josiah rested a hand on Quincy's saddle, shaking his head. "I don't know. I just hope the others aren't in worse shape."

"Do you…" Nathan hesitated, swallowing roughly. "Do you think they're dead? Buck and Vin?"

"No way to know, my friend. But our boy here survived whatever it was. Here's hoping the others did too." Josiah looked at Ezra. "And here's hoping that, next time he wakes, he can tell us how."

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A thudding pain beat in his skull, relentlessly thwarting his ability to stay asleep. As the awareness he fought against grew, he felt a bone-deep ache in his lungs, and an even duller thudding pain from his wrist and ankle. Soon he could also feel other aches and sores seemingly emanating from every inch of his body. With a groan, he tried to shift in the bed, only to feel rocky ground under his hips and back, the dirt shifting as he moved. It was confusing, and he tried to remember why—

A hand touched his shoulder and he yelped in fear, pulling away and trying to get to his feet, only to be fettered by whatever was wrapped around him. Panic had him thrashing at the ties, trying to get free.

"Ezra, stop!" someone shouted, holding down his legs and torso.

"Get off me!" he yelled, flailing his good arm up and smacking something hard. Then more hands were on his arms, holding him still, much stronger than he could possibly break through, and he froze. Breathing quickly, he finally got a good look at his attacker.

With sudden clarity, a name instantly matched the face in his mind. Nathan was staring at him, eyes wide and worried. "It's okay," he was saying. "It's okay. It's just us. You're okay."

"Nathan?" he croaked.

Nathan blinked, and suddenly he was grinning, looking almost ecstatic. "You know me?"

He frowned, vaguely aware that the hands holding him down lifted away, and tried to answer that question properly. More images and words flowed into his mind with the name and face—laughing over a drink, enjoying a sword-fight, a dark-walled space smelling of plants and acids…. "Yes, you're Nathan," he said carefully. "You're…" He frowned again, trying to find the right word and ending up with: "…someone I know."

Nathan nodded quickly. "Yeah. Yes. You do. Oh, I'm so glad. We-"

"What about me?" the other man with Nathan asked. It was the large man with the grizzled face and gray hair. He moved so he was next to Nathan, his expression hopeful. "Do you know me?"

He frowned deeply as he studied the face, which was remarkably distinctive, trying to find that same rush of memories, but nothing came. Feeling oddly guilty, he gave a single head shake.

"I'm sorry."

The large man tried to hide the disappointment, but it was clear as day on that strangely long face. It made him feel even guiltier for not knowing him. Nathan also looked disappointed, but the older man looked almost stricken.

"I'm sorry," he said to the large man. "It's nothing personal. I still don't know my own name yet, if that's any consolation."

"He's Josiah," Nathan supplied helpfully. "And your name is Ezra."

He gave a nod. "That I guessed, since you've been calling me that. But it's not familiar." _Ezra_. He rolled the name around in his head, trying to get it to stick. He looked at the older man, but _Josiah_ wasn't sticking either.

"But you remember my name?" Nathan asked. "Why?"

Ezra frowned again. "I don't know. I just…." He trailed off then, looking beyond Nathan now to their surroundings. The rocks walls, the cool air and shadows of a limestone ravine. Mesquite and sage crowded the higher points, shifting in a soft breeze. "Where are we?" he asked in wonder. It was so peaceful here.

"Oh," Nathan backed away and looked around. "A ravine a few miles up from where we were. Chris asked us to stay here while he tried to find your campsite."

"Chris," Ezra repeated. "The blond man?"

The one called Josiah nodded. "He's trying to find out what happened to you. And two of our other friends, Buck and Vin."

 _Vin!_ Ezra jerked, pulling away. He suddenly remembered shouting that name, could hear it echo loud and pure inside his skull, could feel the fear that went with it. Images flashed into his brain then, an onslaught of color and sound he couldn't shut out. He cried out in pain, wrapping his hands around his head.

 _He was at the stream, and there was a noise. He turned and looked up the hill towards the camp, dropping the canteens..._

"Ezra?" Nathan was calling, tugging on him, trying to pull his hands away from his face. "Ezra, you okay?"

 _Vin!_

He reached forward suddenly, grabbing onto Nathan's corduroy sleeve. "It's…I…" He cried out again as the images came back, cramming into his head, blocking his vision. He covered his eyes, trying to will them away, rocking back and forth as a cacophony of sounds assaulted his ears over and over again.

"Talk to me, Ez! You have to talk to me, or I can't help!"

" _Help! Help me, please!"_

"Voices," Ezra managed to say, or perhaps shout, since he was trying to be heard over all the noise in his head. "I can hear voices." He pressed his hands to his ears, squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

" _Please! You have to listen to me!"_

"What voices? What are they saying?"

"Not saying, he's begging!" Ezra said, still rocking. "He needs help. Oh God, make it stop!"

" _You have to help me, please! I didn't do this!_ _I swear, I didn't kill her. I didn't kill my wife!"_

" _Shut up!"_

" _Leave him alone!"_

"Ez, come on, talk to me. What's happening?"

" _Vin! Answer me!"_ _There was blood on his back, the tan, fringed jacket was soaked. It was everywhere_.

"Ezra! No, don't, you'll….Josiah, grab his arms, he's going to hurt himself!"

" _What if he's telling the truth? If he is innocent—"_

" _You saying believe him?"_

" _Don't you?"_

A shout. "Ezra!"

He blinked rapidly, clearing the images, memories, and looked up at Nathan. "What?"

"What just happened?"

He simply stared at Nathan, not sure how to answer. As quickly as the voices and images had come, they'd gone. He didn't know who'd been speaking, or why, or even what any of it meant. His mind was a blank. He realized then that he was being held—he was sitting up and the older man had his arms around him, but let him go when Nathan nodded at him.

"Thank you," Ezra said unkindly, wrenching his arms forward. "I'm sure that did wonders for my broken wrist."

"I'm sorry, son." The one called Josiah sounded contrite, but Ezra didn't care. His arm was killing him now, and he cradled it to his chest.

"Ezra?" Nathan's voice had gone very soft, very worried.

"I'm here," he said. It was true, after all.

"What happened?"

Ezra sighed. "I suppose…I must have remembered something."

"Oh," Nathan blinked. "That's good, I guess. Though, it didn't seem like a pleasant memory." With a wary expression, he asked, "What, uh, what did you remember?"

He shook his head. He didn't know. He needed help. "Before," he said, "that man-the blond one-he asked me where some other men were. What men? Who was I with?"

Nathan glanced at Josiah, frowning slightly before answering. "You were with three men. Buck, Vin and—"

"And the innocent man," Ezra finished, and the voice was back.

" _I'm innocent, I swear! You have to listen to me! The sheriff, he wouldn't listen, but I wasn't home when it happened! I wasn't anywhere nearby. You have to help me!"_

"Innocent man? You mean the prisoner?"

" _Did you know they haven't found a body? They have no idea if she's even dead. Whoever took her, if they killed her, they might come after me. They want me dead too, so I won't talk! You have to help me! We're in danger the closer we get to that town!"_

"Ezra?"

" _Help me find her, find out what really happened. That's why I ran in the first place, to find the truth. Please! Please help me. Do it for her, if not for me. Please-I'm begging you."_

"Ezra Standish!"

He blinked, and Nathan was in front of him again, holding his arms. "What?"

Nathan huffed a relieved breath. "Another memory?"

Ezra just frowned. "I don't…No, I was hearing the innocent man. His voice."

"Why did you call him innocent?" Josiah asked.

"What?" Ezra didn't understand the question. "Who?"

"Martin Coombs," Josiah said. "The prisoner you were escorting. Why did you call him innocent?"

Ezra blinked again, more rapidly this time, and he looked up at Josiah, wide and curious.

"Was that his name?" he asked. Strangely, the world looked like it was shivering around the large man. Nothing he looked at was sitting still. And it was _so_ bright. He frowned, squinting now. "Why is it so bright?" He looked down at the arm he was cradling. "Why does my arm hurt so much?"

Nathan rested a gentle hand on his arm. "Okay, that's enough. Look, just for a little while, would you lie back again? I want to finish cleaning that cut on your head, and to finish bandaging your wrist."

Ezra didn't want to. He was still feeling on the edge of panic, and the images in his head were coming faster now. They didn't make much sense, but he could hear the man's voice—Martin Coombs?—louder and louder. He knew his face as well, could see how scared he'd been.

Why was it so bright? The sun, it shouldn't be that bright in the woods. It had been raining, hadn't it? Where had Vin gone? Oh, right, he was supposed to be getting water.

Ezra shook his head, fighting against the brightness, and then against the hands trying to urge him to lie back on the blanket he was on. He could hear Nathan, but he could hear the others too, and he just…he just couldn't do what they wanted.

 _The stream ran cold, the canteen filling up slowly. There was a noise and he'd jumped to his feet, looking up the hill._

 _A gunshot, loud and harsh. Vin's voice cried out in pain._

 _He dropped the canteens and ran. He pulled his guns. Another gunshot, closer…_

"Vin!"

He threw the hands off and shouted, only to have those much stronger arms pressing him down, crushing him. He tried to fight them off, to get to Vin, but pain coursed through every inch, the aching ribs flaring up like they'd been lit on fire. He couldn't…he couldn't….

The blackness came before he could stop it, sucking him under.

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TBC - as NT would say, the plot thickens...though actually, I think she might use the word congeals. So, yes, the plot _congeals_...


	3. Chapter 3

**OVER THE EDGE  
** **By Tipper**

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 **CHAPTER THREE: GHOSTS AT THE CAMPSITE**

Night had fallen when he blinked his eyes open, and he knew immediately he was somewhere new. Thick pine trees and smaller rocks were lit in the red hues of the fire next to him and the silver of the waxing moon above, a very different place from the ravine. More open, for one. It smelled different as well, wetter and earthier—some sort of plateau area.

When no one immediately appeared, he frowned and closed his eyes again, listening to the camp. There was movement nearby – the clang of a spoon against a pot, the shift of a foot, the snort of a horse. He wasn't alone, but they weren't bothering him either.

A heavy tread moved towards him, but he kept his eyes shut—he wanted to hear what they were saying without knowing he was awake.

"Boys." The leader from this morning, the blond one.

"Chris." That was Nathan.

"You find anything?" The older one asked.

"It's too dark," the one called Chris replied. "Some tracks, a messy area up near the edge of that hillock where a fight might've been, that's about it. The tracks go in different directions but that's all I got. This damned night came upon me too fast. I ran outta light. If Vin were here…" He trailed off, a pregnant pause, and Ezra tried to understand what it meant.

"Then another night."

"No choice." There was the sound of someone sitting, then an irritated sounding huff. "He remember anything more?"

"He hasn't woken." Nathan sounded worried; Ezra felt oddly guilty. "I'm not sure moving him again to this campsite was such a great idea."

"Had to be done. This place might trigger something."

"You're sure this is where he was hurt?"

"Fresh blood, all around. Had to chase off half a dozen critters when I arrived. And then, 'course, there's the obvious-he'd never have left him tied up like that willingly."

Tied up? Ezra's eyes opened at that. He'd left someone tied up? He tried to remember, tried to pull that notion together, but…

" _Tie him back up, Ezra."_

" _Don't bother. He ain't going anywhere with us watchin'."_

" _I'm not arguing with you again, Vin. Ez, tie him up now."_

He recalled the hesitation at those words, the feeling of dread. He drew in a shaky breath and let it out, trying to calm his nerves.

"Ez? You awake?" Nathan was suddenly right next to him, and he couldn't feign sleep any longer. He tilted his head, looking up at the man. He was still almost a stranger, like he was caught between reality and some sort of dream. He just knew, somehow, that he knew this man. More than that, this man…this man was a friend.

"How you doing?" Nathan asked, reaching to touch the bandage on his head.

That was a hard question to answer. He felt oddly stiff and heavy, like he couldn't move his body easily. Everything also ached, in the way a body often ached after sleeping on too hard a surface, and sore, as if he'd been fighting the steamer's engines for days without a break.

Steamer. He'd lived on a steamer, a riverboat. He remembered it—the sway of the boat, the soft lapping of the river against the sides, the softness of his bed after a long night of gaming, a woman with blonde hair kissing his cheek…

" _My sweet baby boy, they just can't resist you at the tables, can they? Keep it up and this boat'll be ours. Doesn't that make you happy?"_

"Ezra?"

"Did we…" He frowned. "Did we used to live on a boat, Nathan?"

Nathan's lips stretched into a small smile, and he shook his head. "We didn't, but you did. You were a riverboat gambler for a while. You still wear the hat."

Gambler? Instantly, new images popped into his head, of cards and green baize tables, of poker chips and money being spread around, of the same blonde woman smiling and laughing. He felt his eagerness and excitement at watching the games, and his fingers tingled with the memory of learning to shuffle, to fan the cards, to deal both sides of the deck so quickly, no one would see him palming the ace.

" _You deal those cards so fast, how do we know you ain't cheating?"_

He huffed a laugh and smiled at Nathan. "You don't."

Nathan's brow furrowed deeply. "I don't what?"

Ezra blinked again. "You don't know if I'm cheatin'," he explained, smiling slightly. Wasn't it obvious?

Nathan stared at him, then, suddenly, he smiled. "Oh," he said, nodding. "Right."

Ezra smiled in return, then frowned, looking around at the campsite again.

He heard the blond man—Chris-clear his throat, garnering his attention.

"You know where you are, Ezra?"

He blinked. "A campsite?"

"It's where you were hurt."

Ezra tried. He did. But it was like trying to see the wind. "No. I'm sorry."

Chris frowned. "We don't need details, Ezra. But we do need you to try to remember what—"

"Who did I tie up?" Ezra asked then, interrupting. "Was it one of the men you were looking for?"

Nathan's eyes widened slightly, and, curiously, he flashed a wry grin. "Oh, no, nothing like that. Someone else, and he's very worried about you." He looked away at someone, nodded, and looked back down at Ezra. "Maybe he'll help you remember something more."

Ezra shook his head. "I don't know. I can't seem to…." He trailed off then, his gaze looking at something over Nathan's shoulder. Nathan moved to the side, so he could see what had caught Ezra's gaze.

The older man, Josiah, had brought a horse near to the fire, a beautiful chestnut horse that ducked its head when it saw Ezra looking at him.

"Chaucer," Ezra whispered. The horse's head lifted at the name, as if nodding happily, and it blew air out of its teeth. Ezra felt his heart race, knowing it was with joy, and looked pleadingly up at Nathan. "Can I get up?"

Nathan grimaced with uncertainty. "I don't think it's good for you to—"

"Please."

The other man shut his mouth, but he gave a reluctant nod. With the Josiah's help, they got Ezra to his feet. He immediately stumbled over to his horse and all but fell onto the animal's neck, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his head to his side. Chaucer bent his neck, almost hugging him, before lifting his head again. Ezra felt something inside his mind slot into place, like his memory of Nathan, another piece of the jigsaw finding a home.

"Well, that's two names he's remembered," he heard Nathan whisper.

"I'll try not to be jealous," Josiah replied sourly.

Ezra's guilt returned, and he reluctantly let Chaucer go, stepping back and, cradling his wrist to his chest to diffuse some of the pain of moving it. He turned to look at the three men, and smiled.

"Thank you."

The blond man just frowned. "We need your help, Ezra. We need you to remember more than just Nathan and your horse."

Ezra's smile faded. The blond man was looking almost accusatory, as if Ezra were doing this deliberately. Feeling a little nervous under the weight of the man's anger, he nodded and looked around the clearing, hoping to recognize something. It was a quiet, moonlit grotto, surrounded by trees on all sides. The ground rose to the north, and dipped to the south, and large boulders ringed it.

And, yes, it was familiar. More than familiar.

"I've been here before," he said wonderingly, as ghost-like figures started moving about the site in his mind's eye.

" _Good a place as any to stop."_

" _Already? But we've hours left before sun goes down."_

" _The rain's getting worse. Not much shelter further up the road and you know what this'll do to the ford."_

" _You're stalling."_

" _I'd just rather be dry, wouldn't you?"_

"Do you remember when you got here?" Chris asked, standing up to get out of Ezra's sightline.

"About the time it started raining very heavily," Ezra answered, feeling a little dazed. Finding this campsite had been a blessing, since it kept most of the water off. It would flood the road, and make the ford between here and the town impassable, at least for a while. But they had the time—the trial was still a few days off. Ezra remembered settling the bound man by the cold fire while the other two men argued.

" _Maybe I'm thinking we could use the rest. Ain't gonna slow down his hanging."_

" _Vin, they're expecting us to be there tomorrow morning, and we're still at least a day out."_

" _So? Let 'em wait."_

" _Ezra, talk to him."_

" _I can't. I agree with Vin."_

"Ezra?" The blond man had moved closer, within a couple of feet, and Ezra frowned, not remembering seeing him do that.

"Yes?"

"You're remembering?"

He frowned, and tried to answer the question. The ghosts were still there, and he tried to focus on them, to understand. "Um…yes. Two men. Arguing."

"Vin and Buck?"

"Maybe." He gestured towards Vin's ghost. "One of them is called Vin."

"What are they arguing about?" Chris asked.

"The prisoner, I think." Ezra looked at the ghostly figure of the bound man, his pleading eyes shining in the moonlight.

"Coombs?" Chris frowned, and looked over at Nathan, who had also come closer. "Nathan said you called him 'the innocent man.' Why?"

"Because he said it over and over," Ezra answered, the ghosts watching him now. "I can hear his voice so clearly because he just wouldn't give up." He pressed a hand to his temple, where the throbbing was returning. "The big one, with the moustache, he wanted to gag him."

"Buck?" Nathan was next to him now as well. "That doesn't sound like him."

"You have to understand, every step of the way, every time we stopped, he—the bound man—he tried to convince us of his innocence. Begged us to hear his side. Tried to impress upon us to help him prove it, to prove that he didn't kill his wife. To help him find her." He tilted his head, looking at the ghost of the bound man with his hands pressed together as if in prayer, watching him with terrified eyes. "He just wouldn't stop. It was maddening, but I….I…."

"What?"

"I couldn't see the lie on his face." The phrase sounded like an echo in his ears.

"You mean you believed him?"

"Yes." Ezra was sure of that. "And so did Vin. But the other man…"

" _You're loco if you believe this liar, both of you."_

"…He didn't." Ezra grimaced as the pain in his head worsened.

"Buck can be a little single-minded when it comes to men who hurt women," Josiah said quietly. "I'm not surprised."

"If Vin believed him, that would explain the argument," Nathan said. "Buck disgusted by anyone hurting a woman; Vin wondering if the man might be falsely accused…"

"And you took Vin's side?" Chris asked Ezra.

Ezra frowned. "It's not just that," he said. "There…there was more to it."

"More?"

The bound man was standing now, his face filled with fear. Vin looked worried, and the other man uncertain, all looking at Ezra.

"Danger," Ezra said, reading their fear, wondering if it really was his own. "Someone…stop us from reaching town." He frowned, the ghosts were fading. "I can't…There's more. I know there's more."

"Danger? From whom? Who was after him, Ezra? What more? What happened to Buck and Vin?"

Ezra tried to remember, to see. But the ghosts had faded completely, and everything was back to the way it was when he'd woken up a few minutes ago. He didn't know what he was being asked. He felt light-headed all of a sudden, dizzy. Chris said something, but he couldn't understand it. He frowned, pressing the butt of his hand harder against his aching forehead. Chris spoke again, and Ezra turned to look at him. Strangely, he looked blurry.

"What?"

Chris spoke again, but it was like trying to understand Chinese. Chris reached for him, seemed to shout something, and Ezra stepped back, panicked. Pain lanced through him, up his neck and into the base of his skull. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry. Please. Please stop." But Chris kept coming, getting larger, darker, meaner. "Stop! I don't understand what you're saying!"

Chris grabbed his arm and it was like being touched by a hot poker. Ezra yelped and backed away. He turned, only to find Nathan in front of him. Nathan was also speaking, but it was as foreign as the rest. But he could see the gestures he was making, encouraging him to lie down. He stumbled a little when he tried to walk, and allowed Nathan took his arm. Unlike Chris who had terrified him for some reason, it was calming. He let the man lead him back to the fire, settling him onto the blankets.

A horse whinnied nearby and he was grateful when the darkness pulled him under again.

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"It's alright. It's fine. You're fine," Nathan said as Ezra curled up on his undamaged side, the man clearly trembling. One of the horses—probably Chaucer—whinnied nearby. "Don't worry. Just rest. It'll be okay." He frowned, not sure Ezra was even hearing him anymore. Grabbing one of the blankets, he draped it over his friend, wishing he had something more substantial to keep him warm.

He heard Chris sigh heavily, and he lowered his head.

"I'm sorry," Nathan said. "I know you wanted more information from him, but—"

"No," Chris said, his voice dark. "That was…." He was obviously freaked out by how crazy Ezra had seemed—yelling like they weren't right in front of him and clearly afraid of Chris. "It's good enough for now." Chris sighed again, then frowned. "And it tells us something."

"That someone else might have done this to Ezra, and could have the others," Josiah filled in, looking a little out of sorts himself.

Chris's frown deepened. "We'll need to set up a perimeter before we bed down, just in case. I doubt anyone will come back here, but…." He gripped his hands into fists. "Donnelly better not have known about this. If this is what Ezra's message from Dry Ridge meant—if we've lost them because we didn't have all the facts—and Ezra doesn't recover, Donnelly will pay." The shadows on his face seemed to darken even further, and Chris turned away.

"He'll recover," Nathan said. "He's holding his own right now. Unless there's something more I can't see that's wrong with him—"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Chris said. "There's still too much we don't know." He glanced at Nathan over his shoulder. "Don't make assurances that you can't back up, Doc."

Nathan stood, crossing his arms as he watched Chris move away from the fire, his back to them. He looked at Josiah, but his friend just shrugged. The preacher shifted over to settle by Ezra's head, reaching out to touch their friend's still furrowed brow, softly intoning a prayer that God watch over Ezra's sleep.

Nathan tried not to be angry with Chris' pessimism, or Josiah's seeming calm. Letting out a pent up breath, he tried to change the subject.

"He seems to know who Vin is," Nathan said, because it seemed important to note it. "That's something, right?"

"Then why doesn't he remember Buck?" Josiah asked, still gently running his hand over Ezra's forehead.

"I don't know. I don't understand what's happening to him."

"I might," Chris said from across the camp. He was standing in the shadows, almost as if hiding in them. "I saw something like this during the war. Men whose heads were so scrambled from being hit, all their memories were a jumble."

Nathan frowned. He never really spoke with the men he helped treat after they left the medics' tent. He knew many were transported away to better care somewhere else, but most of the time they were still unconscious or barely cognizant when they left. He remembered their expressions—often blank or lost. Ezra had some aspects of that, but he was also interacting with Nathan, hearing him and answering his questions. Perhaps because he knew him? Because they were friends?

He just didn't know. This was out of his depth—caring for injuries was one thing. Caring for someone whose mind was—how did Chris put it? Scrambled?—was another.

"I've seen this too," Josiah said softly, watching Ezra's expressive face twitching in what was obviously a fevered sleep. "In the places where they tried to put my sister."

Nathan turned sharply. What the hell did that mean? "That's not what's happening!" he said fiercely. "He's not going—"

"I know," Josiah said, cutting him off, his voice just as sharp. "I know," he said again, more softly this time, looking away. "I was just…I don't know what I was trying to achieve by mentioning that."

Nathan just continued to stare, but then he gripped his hands into fists. "It's just a knock on the head. He's going to be fine. Once he sorts out what he's seeing, he'll be fine. There's no indications that…that this is more than that."

Josiah just looked sad, and, if anything, that just made Nathan angrier. "You are not giving up on him," he snarled. He glared at Chris as well, and was gratified to see some contrition in the other man's gaze. "Either of you."

Chris pursed his lips, but some decision was made, because he turned and strode back into the firelight. "Fine. Then we need to get him to remember. We are losing time, time that neither Vin nor…" He trailed off then, his face taking on that farseeing quality that was somewhat unnerving. He pushed his duster off his hip suddenly, revealing his gun.

"What is it?" Josiah asked, standing now as well. He'd pulled his Smith & Wesson in reaction to Chris's actions. Nathan stood, resting a hand on his gun.

"Riders coming," Chris said, peering into the woods in the direction of the main road, as if expecting to see them any second. "They've likely seen the fire by now. Knock it down and get behind cover."

Nathan was already ahead of him, kicking dirt over the burning wood. He got closer to Ezra, whom they'd already bedded down between a set of boulders.

He saw Josiah right next to Ezra, using the rock he'd been sitting on for cover, and Chris vanished into the shadows altogether.

The sound of horses and men walking in the woods were clearly audible now, closing in on them. He tried to pinpoint the direction, to know if anyone was coming up behind them, and adjusted his shoulders so he could precisely locate the knives on his back. He heard Josiah breathe out slowly and pull back the hammer on his gun. Ezra, he realized for the first time, was wheezing slightly. Then there was a hitch in the breathing. He saw the preacher kneel down, press a hand to Ezra's chest.

"Shhh, shh. Settle. It's okay, don't move."

Nathan grimaced, frustrated by the need to stay still and wanting to get to Ezra. He shifted, trying to decide if he had time.

"No, Nathan, cover us," Josiah hissed fiercely, looking at him. "I've got him."

Nathan frowned, but did as he was told. Then he heard Josiah whispering again, this time sounding surprised.

"What was that, son?"

Nathan glanced over. Josiah's expression was dumbfounded at whatever Ezra was whispering up at him; then, incredibly, the preacher smiled, all white teeth in the dark night.

"No, I don't," Josiah whispered, sounding oddly happy. "I don't. It was lost long ago. And right now, you have to stay still. But…but once we're safe, we'll talk, I promise." And, then, even more curiously, Nathan watched as Josiah knelt and kissed Ezra on his forehead, then patted him on his chest. "Now don't move and keep quiet."

He looked over at Nathan, and grinned again.

It was so joyful, and so antithetical to the danger they were in, Nathan had to shake his head. He pressed a finger to his lips, and gestured towards the darkness with his gun. Josiah continued to smile regardless; With another pat to Ezra's chest, he readied himself again for the fight, as it was clear that the people approaching the camp were almost on top of them.

Then, abruptly, the sounds stopped.

Nathan exhaled as quietly as he could and braced for the gunshots.

"Hello the camp!" a voice shouted.

Nathan's eyes widened as Chris replied:

"Buck?"

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TBC


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N - seriously, thank you guys so much for the reviews! I really did want this to be a mystery, and it's so helpful to know that—at least so far—I haven't given away the farm yet! It helps me no end!_

 **OVER THE EDGE  
** **By TIPPER**

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 **CHAPTER FOUR: REVELATIONS**

Buck moved with obvious wariness, moving into the dark campsite with his horse following him, his hands raised.

"Chris? Is that you?" he called out. "Why is it dark? Did y'all forget how to keep a fire lit?"

Nathan relaxed slightly at the question, delivered as it was with just the right amount of disarming cheek.

"Who is with you?" Chris demanded, still not revealing his own position.

Buck turned, and from out of the woods behind him came three more men, all frowning. There was also a girl in a heavy coat, young but holding a rifle stock in her hand with the air of someone who knew how to use it. She was as eerily calm and cautious as the rest.

"I'm here with Karen Coombs' cousins," Buck replied. "The ones I was sent to find. Didn't Vin and Ezra tell you?"

Nathan looked over at Josiah, neither of them willing to break cover until Chris told them it was okay. To be fair, though, they had a great angle on all four people with Buck. They had walked into the campsite all pulling horses and without worry of being shot.

"Chris," Buck said, putting his hands on his hips. "I don't know what's got you spooked, but these folks aren't a danger. I'm guessing Coombs has been filling your head with the same lies he used on Vin and Ez, but these people got some facts need telling."

"Martin's not what he seems," one of the men called. "We don't know if he killed our Karen, but it wouldn't be a shock if he did."

"And no one's after 'em that we know of," the girl called out. "Karen weren't no cheater!"

"Chris, come on," Buck said again, sounding a little exasperated now. "I've been with these people for the last day—they're good people. And by now you'll know no one is sneaking up on you, so you have 'em all dead to rights." That caused all four people to goggle a little at Buck, and Nathan had to smile. "Come out fellas!"

Chris did then, appearing out from behind a tree, his black clothing making him appear like a wraith. The people with Buck all took a step back, except the girl, who cocked her rifle and put it to her shoulder. Oh yeah, she was young.

"It's alright," Buck said to her, waving down the rifle. "He's always like that. Worse n' a cougar on the prowl. Put it down."

"Put it down, Betty," one of the other cousins said. "I trust Buck."

She hesitated, but did as she was told with clear reluctance. But it was the man's assertion about "trusting Buck," that finally caused Chris to wave Josiah and Nathan to stand up. Both men did, still resting hands on their guns, but at least showing themselves.

"Buck," Chris said then, "What the hell is going on?"

Buck frowned. "Didn't the others—?"

"Vin's missing. Ezra's not all there. He's over there by Nathan. And we've no idea where the prisoner that you were supposed to be watching has gone. So tell me…" He still held his gun in his hand, and raised it slightly in their direction. "Where the _hell_ have you been?"

Buck stared at him a moment, as if poleaxed, then he suddenly ran towards Nathan. The healer stepped aside so Buck could see Ezra on the ground, still partially lit from the dying embers of the fire.

"Oh my god," Buck said. "Ez?" He knelt down, obviously taking in the bruises on Ezra's face, the splinted arm and the filthy clothes. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

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Before all these people appeared, Ezra had woken to the sensation of a hand on his chest, holding him down. When he looked up, it was to see Josiah crouched next to him, gun in hand, the hand pressed to Ezra's chest to keep him still.

"No, Nathan, cover us," Josiah ordered, and Ezra remembered a moment so vividly, he forgot it was night. A cloudless blue sky shone overhead, lit by the early morning sun. Josiah was pressing a hand to his chest, holding him in place against the back of the wagon, keeping him safe after he'd been shot.

" _Nathan, cover us."_

Wait! The diamond! He'd lost the diamond from the broach he'd won, his ticket to buying back the saloon. He recalled thinking he was dead, and then, when he wasn't, he'd panicked at losing the one thing that could have made his future. He started searching the dirt, breaking cover, heedless of anything except getting it back. Josiah had pulled him back as bullets exploded in the dust all around him.

" _My diamond! My diamond!"_

" _What the hell're you doing? You lost your senses?"_

" _Worse, I lost my diamond!"_

" _Ain't gonna do you no good in the hereafter!"_

He'd grabbed at Josiah's arm, the one pressing against his chest, preventing him from going for the diamond, the one keeping his safe. "My diamond!" he croaked out. Josiah blinked down at him, confused.

"What was that, son?"

"Where's my diamond? Preacher, I need that diamond!"

It was like watching the sun come out, the way Josiah had smiled at him, and then explained to him that the diamond was lost "a long time ago."

Ezra frowned, "But, I just had it. I—"

"Once we're safe, we'll talk, I promise," Josiah had said then. And then, just as mystifyingly, he had leaned down and pressed a kiss to Ezra's forehead before telling him not to move.

And, just like that, the night sky returned, the cold campsite fed into his bones, and all the pain he was in washed over him like a wave. But something more was there—he now knew who Josiah was, just as he knew who Nathan was.

Images came to him, flashing through his mind like the cards of a deck being shuffled into order. He remembered sitting across from Josiah over a fire and talking about omens and portents; he remembered watching him trying to court his mother (his _mother,_ the blonde woman was his _mother_ , holy God), and shouting at him to throw a bottle of whiskey as he climbed atop a stagecoach; and he remembered Josiah protecting him during that firefight with the diamond, keeping him still, keeping him safe.

Just like now. Another card slotted into place, another corner of his life made sense.

He said nothing more after that, just watched as Josiah shifted to cover him better. Part of him wanted to help, to not feel so helpless, but he knew without doubt that Nathan and Josiah would be there for him. They were…they were….they felt like…

"Hello the camp!"

Ezra frowned. Someone new?

The shout was followed by a whole conversation he didn't really understand, but Josiah and Nathan both stood up, and he felt a relaxing of the atmosphere.

And then someone had run into the circle of boulders and was kneeling next to him, the man who'd been a ghost, the one whose name he couldn't remember. He was someone who was larger than life, with a big black moustache and bright eyes ringed with lines that were wrinkled with worry.

"Ez?" the stranger asked, looking shocked. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

Ezra recoiled slightly as the man edged closer, not sure this wasn't who had hurt him.

"Ez?" the stranger said again.

"Do you remember Buck, Ezra?" Josiah asked.

He blinked, frowned, and shook his head. "No."

"What?" the man's eyes bugged out. "What? No, I…" The stranger looked at Josiah. "What do you mean? Why doesn't he—?"

"Someone tried to crack his head open."

"What? When?"

"We don't know," Nathan said. "He's not remembering things properly; it's like his memories are out of order, confused. Beyond that, he's lucky to be alive—he was half dead when we found him." Nathan crossed his arms abruptly, and now there was no question he was glaring at Buck. "What the hell, Buck!"

Ezra almost flinched at the amount of anger in that yell. Josiah didn't look angry—more puzzled—but when the one called Chris appeared between them, there was no doubt that Nathan's anger was nothing compared to the blond man's fury. Ezra remembered how terrified he'd been of Chris a few minutes ago.

Buck stood up, eyes still wide, raising his hands as the three men rounded on him, forcing him away from Ezra. "Whoa! Whoa, guys, I didn't do this to him! I've no idea how this happened!"

"We know you didn't do this to him," Chris snarled. "But where were you when it did?"

Buck frowned then, skipping back another step and then finally standing his ground, holding up a hand. "Oh no, don't you dare blame this on me! They made me go!"

Nathan lifted his head. "What does that mean?"

"Ezra and Vin! They sent me to get these people. Ez, tell…." Buck's voice died away as he looked at Ezra, and his face crumpled slightly. "Oh Christ, Ezra. I'm so sorry. I should never have left. I knew it…I knew something was wrong."

In the background, several more people had walked into Ezra's line of sight, all looking at him curiously. Three young men and a girl barely out of her teens. They were family, obviously, with the same overlong brown hair, similar snub noses and square chins. None looked particularly dangerous, just confused. He knew the feeling.

"I do remember some things," Ezra told Buck softly, trying to reconcile this man with the ghost he'd seen earlier. He swallowed, trying to get the spit past the razorblades that seemed to have filled his throat. "I remember…I've seen you before."

Buck's eyes brightened at that. "Yeah, buddy. You have. We're friends. Good ones. I—"

"No." Ezra had to stop him, because that wasn't what he meant. He didn't remember this man other than as a ghost. "No," he said again. "I remember seeing you over there." He gestured towards the horses. "Arguing with…with Vin."

Buck's smile vanished. "Arguing with Vin." He snorted angrily. "No doubt on that." He frowned deeply. "That's all you remember? Nothing else?"

Ezra hesitated, feeling as if more was there just missing, and grimaced. "That's all. Sorry."

Buck looked a little crestfallen by this, but he didn't ask anything else. Instead, he looked at Chris.

"What were you arguing about?" Chris asked.

Buck sighed, his face flushing slightly. "It started not long after we left home." He shrugged. "And it just escalated from there." He glanced at Ezra as he spoke, as if Ezra could corroborate. "We fought about the prisoner. Coombs spent most of the two days it took us to get here trying to convince us he was innocent, saying he was set up. He claimed that no one found his wife's body, but that someone had taken her and he'd only run to try to find her."

Ezra took that in, hearing the voice of the prisoner again in his head. The words made more sense now, less jumbled.

"After a while, Vin started to believe him," Buck continued. "And…" He shrugged. "I won't lie. He was awful convincing."

"Ezra said there was more to it," Chris said.

Buck nodded. "Yeah. Coombs also said that he was sure someone was after him. That, before we made it to Blue River and Sheriff Donnelly, that whoever took his wife would try to kill him and us. Said we needed to be vigilant."

"From the looks of it," Nathan said, gesturing to Ezra, "maybe he was right."

Buck's expression soured. "I don't know about that. But I know he was a liar."

"How can you be so sure?" Nathan asked.

"Because Coombs wouldn't say who 'they' were!" Buck snarled. "He couldn't tell us who was after him, or who killed his wife. He just said that he was sure she had had an affair with some man, someone who hit her, and that he was sure that was the man who took her. She never told him the man's name."

"That could still be true. How could you—"

"Because his knuckles were covered in scars! You think I don't know the signs? Coombs kept saying he'd never hurt his wife, that he'd never hurt anyone, that he wasn't that kind of man. But both hands had callouses and marks from busted knuckles. Wickes' hands had those marks. The men who ran the brothels I knew as a child had those same marks, some of the women too. So did Coombs."

Ezra tried to remember what Buck was telling them, to hear him make that argument to Vin, but none of it was familiar. His head also had started to really pound, but he was determined to hear everything that was being said. As if sensing the scrutiny, Buck looked at him again, his expression dour.

"But Vin wasn't so easily convinced about their meaning. Said that, maybe Coombs got into fights when he was younger. He said his instincts told him the man was telling the truth. And you…." He sighed. "You believed him too, Ez. You said you couldn't see the lie on his face."

Ezra said nothing to that. He couldn't. It was like being asked to remember all the patches on a quilt, and not even remembering the right colors.

"So what happened then?" Chris asked, still clearly angry about the whole thing. Buck frowned, shaking his head.

"Vin had us stop here. He claimed that, since it'd started to rain heavily, it weren't worth pushing on, but I knew he wanted to stall. We still had half a day's light before we really needed to camp and you know there are better shelters down the canyon than up here. I wanted to push on, trying to argue that maybe we could get Donnelly to delay the hanging for a few days, but better to have Coombs behind bars while we followed up on some of the things he was telling us. Donnelly's a good guy; you know he would've done it. Vin, though, had bought into the notion that the town wouldn't give Coombs a fair chance to prove himself, and that maybe there really was someone else out there after Coombs, like this mystery adulterer. He wanted us to pretend to lose Coombs, but really, we'd help him prove his innocence. And that's when we really started to fight, especially when Vin let Coombs move around."

" _Tie him back up, Ezra."_

" _Don't bother, Ez. He ain't going anywhere with us watchin'."_

" _I'm not arguing with you again, Vin. Ez, tie him up now."_

" _Don't do it, Ezra!"_

" _I'm not asking you, Ez, I'm telling you. Tie him up now!"_

" _And I said, don't!"_

Ezra jerked, hearing the start of the argument in his head as surely as if it'd just occurred. He pressed a hand to his head, trying to dull the throbbing inside his skull. Chills ran up his body, causing him to shake.

"Vin and me…" Buck continued. "It got sort of ugly. It might've gotten real ugly, if…" He looked at Ezra. "If you hadn't done that thing you always do." He smiled wryly. "You stepped in between us, all charm and smarm, and said, with that Kentucky bourbon voice of yours, 'gentlemen, if I may, I believe I have a compromise that may help resolve this increasingly tedious argument?'"

Ezra blinked. Was that how he talked?

"'I thought perhaps,'" Buck continued, using a honeyed drawl that did sound sort of familiar, "'before you both do something you'll regret, we might be able to meet Mr. Coombs' request for aid without also failing to do our duty to Sheriff Donnelly.'" He used his hands as he talked, and Ezra's lips fell open. He looked down at his own hands, as if they might suddenly start moving the same way.

"I take it this 'compromise' had something to do with you leaving?" Chris said.

"Yeah." Buck frowned again. "Ezra figured that, while letting Coombs go wasn't a good idea, perhaps we could delay things a bit, give us some time to get some more information before delivering Coombs to the town. But we were only going to delay for a day. We could explain away a day, and a search party wouldn't likely be sent out for at least a couple of days." Buck eyed Chris, Nathan and Josiah dryly. "You're here earlier than we expected." He then looked at Ezra. "Either way, plan was, Ez and Vin were supposed to deliver Coombs to Donnelly yesterday evening, and ask that the hanging be delayed until I got to town."

"While you…"

"Went looking for answers. Ezra's idea was that we should find someone who knew Coombs and his wife, but wasn't part of the town, who might be able to 'shed some light' on the things Coombs was saying. And it had to be me, because Vin didn't trust me with Coombs." His face darkened at that. "He might've been right about that. I wouldn't have let him have an inch. But Ez…Ez promised to not let Vin's bleeding heart get the better of him." He looked at Ezra again, the guilt he felt plain on his face. He shook his head.

"When we told Coombs," Buck finished, "he was all for it. In fact, he was the one who suggested I find the Eatons." He turned and gestured to the people with him. "His wife's cousins—Peter, Mark, John and Betty." The four people all straightened at being suddenly included in the conversation. "Said Betty there was Karen Coombs' best friend, and if anyone knew whom she might be seeing behind his back, it'd be her."

The girl straightened. "He was right about that. Karen was my best friend. But he was wrong about the rest. Like I said earlier, she wasn't seeing anyone. Coombs was paranoid."

"You swear on that?" Chris asked her. She nodded.

"On my life. The only one who touched her was Coombs." He face screwed up then. "And he definitely hit her. I seen him do it."

"So did I," said the one called Mark. "I just never told anyone, 'cause Karen begged me not too."

"We each seen him do something bad to her," a third cousin spoke, Peter. "But until this, we'd none of us broke the promise we made to Karen not to talk about it." He looked destroyed by this fact.

Betty touched his arm, and said to Chris, "Truth is, mister, we're all hating ourselves right now, for not helping our Karen more. So when Buck showed up, asking us to fill in the blanks in Coombs' story, we knew we had to come back here with him, to tell his friends."

Buck nodded. "I didn't much want to do this thing—find these people—but it did back up my gut feeling about Coombs. It's why I brought them all here with me, Chris. This isn't like what happened with Claire Mosely. This time, the bad guy really is the bad guy."

Chris had lowered his gaze to the ground, as if trying to find the answers there. Finally, though, he sighed and looked up.

"It still doesn't tell us where Vin and Coombs are, or what happened to Ezra. Until we know for sure, we're posting a watch. And Buck?" Chris frowned at him. "These people are your responsibility." He stared at him for a moment, and then abruptly walked away into the darkness. "Josiah, get the fire back up. I'll go get more wood."

Buck frowned unhappily as he watched Chris leave, and Ezra could understand why. Chris was still angry, which didn't make much sense if what Buck had said happened was the truth. It sounded like he and Vin had made this Buck person leave the camp.

Nathan was kneeling next to him again, resting a hand on his shoulder. Josiah had wandered off into the dark somewhere, probably to get what he needed to relight the fire. The cousins left his sightline as well, to go who knows where.

Buck sighed finally, and looked down at him. His face morphed completely into one of concern, and he knelt down next to Ezra again.

"I am so sorry," he said again.

Ezra wanted to assure him that it really wasn't, but the pain in his head had come back so fiercely, he was having trouble even keeping his eyes open. Another chill ran through him, worse than the one from before, and despite his efforts, he couldn't fight off the darkness bringing him down.

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"He's shaking," Buck said, clearly still worried. He looked at Nathan. "Fever?"

"Maybe," Nathan answered. "Could also be exhaustion or fear."

"Fear?"

"He's…" Nathan tried to find the words to explain the terror they'd seen him exhibit. He ended up falling back on something he'd read in a book. "Amnesia can be terrifying for patients; he's lost his identity, his past. That would be scary for anyone."

"He really doesn't remember anything?"

Nathan smiled faintly. "Well, he seems to recall pieces. He remembered me almost immediately," he said. "And just before you came, he seemed to remember who Josiah was. At least, he knows that Josiah and I were part of his life."

"But not Chris or me?"

"No." He shrugged. "And he doesn't know who he is, either. You heard the way he talks—when have you ever heard him use three words when a dozen would do?"

Buck smiled weakly at that, standing again. Then he shook his head. "I can't believe I let this happen."

"Don't sound like they gave you much of a choice."

Buck shrugged. "It's still on me."

Nathan reached out a hand. "Buck, I-"

"So what's been done to figure out where Vin and Coombs are?"

Nathan tensed his jaw, tempted to ignore the question, but aware too that it deserved an answer. He shook his head.

"Not much yet. We only arrived here about an hour before you did, and it was dark. Chris tried to get a sense of what had happened and to see if he could find any tracks, but there just wasn't enough light. As soon as it lightens, though, we'll start the search."

Buck nodded. "And Ezra didn't remember much more than what he said, I take it?"

"No. He may know more, but—"

"But he had his head cracked open. Yeah." Buck rested his hands on his hips. "I heard that part already."

Nathan dropped his head. Buck was going to be beating himself up for this for a while.

"It's late," he told Buck. "Maybe we should start thinking about getting some rest."

"Screw that," Buck said sharply. "I got my flask in my saddlebags. I'm getting a drink." Without another look, he was walking away and Nathan watched him go.

It was going to be a long night.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I adore you guys. I promise not to keep you in suspense too much longer…_

 **OVER THE EDGE  
** **By TIPPER**

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 **CHAPTER FIVE: MORNING LIGHT**

Josiah woke Nathan, shaking him lightly by the arm. Nathan could already feel the warming of the air, the blush of false dawn on the horizon. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and looked around.

Backlit by the pale light, he could see Chris kneeling by some rocks in the middle of the clearing, pushing leaves aside, while Buck stood next to him. They were looking at something.

"What did they find?" he asked of Josiah. The preacher was at the cookfire, pouring hot coffee into a cup for Nathan.

"Blood."

"Whose?"

Josiah just gave him a look, finished pouring the coffee, and walked it over to Nathan.

"Is it a lot?" Nathan asked, taking the proffered cup.

"Not enough to kill someone," Josiah replied, "if that's what you're asking. But it's a good amount."

"Think it's Ezra's?"

"I am many things, my friend, but a diviner is not one of them. However…" He looked behind Nathan. "I'd say it was a good guess."

Nathan sighed, and turned to look at Ezra. Amazingly, the man was already awake and sitting on a boulder, looking rather blankly at his surroundings. He also had coffee in his hand, though he didn't seem aware of it.

With a small groan from sleeping on the hard ground, Nathan got to his feet and stumbled over to him, shaking the tiredness from his legs.

"Hey."

Ezra blinked slowly, and looked up. For a moment, he didn't seem to know who he was looking at, then the confusion faded.

"Nathan."

"How are you feeling?" Nathan knelt and pressed a hand to Ezra's forehead. It was hot—his fever was worse, something that wasn't a surprise. Ezra said nothing to the question as Nathan lifted the bandages on his head to look at the gash, grimacing a little at the fact that there was still a lot of blackish blood on the cloth. He could also see the trembling—being out here in the open wasn't doing him any favors. He needed to get Ezra to a bed, to be tended to properly. He checked the bruises on his torso next, feeling the rigidness of some of them, and frowning. They weren't rigid yesterday—this wasn't good.

When he met Ezra's gaze again, his friend looked mildly confused.

"What are you doing?" Ezra asked, sounding a little dreamy.

"Looking you over. Can you tell me how you're feeling? Do you feel worse than yesterday?"

Ezra did that slow blink again. "Yesterday?" he repeated. "What happened yesterday?"

Nathan's frown deepened. "It's okay, just…tell me how you feel."

"Cold. Tired."

"In pain?"

"What's happening over there?" Ezra asked instead of answering, pointing a shaking finger out towards the camp. Nathan turned in time to see everyone gathered in the middle, near Chris and Buck. Even Josiah had gone over.

"I'm not sure. Look, Ezra, I need you to tell me if—"

"We should find out," Ezra said then, standing. "Maybe I will remember something. You need me to help find your friend, yes?" He swayed slightly, but when Nathan reached for his good arm, he simply drew it away. "I'm fine." He started walking, limping slightly, and Nathan could do nothing but follow.

"…that something happened," Chris was saying, throwing a blood speckled branch back onto the ground. "And I'm done just standing here trying to figure it out or hoping that Ezra will remember."

"What do you suggest?" Buck asked. "We're not Vin. Sure, I can see there was a fight here, but not more than to tell you that someone was hurt. Who, how or why? None of us are that good."

Chris was about to say something else when he spotted Ezra. "There's blood here. It mean anything to you?"

Ezra looked at the ground, his brow furrowed. Finally, he gave a head shake.

Chris pursed his lips in frustration, then looked up at the still gray sky. "Sun's not up yet, but there's enough light to begin a search for a trail and follow it. Peso and Coombs' horses are missing—there will be signs of where they went." He looked at the group. "I say we fan out, each take a side, and see what we find."

"Good enough for me," Buck said, gesturing to the cousins. "We'll take north."

"I'll take east," Chris said then.

"Guess that leaves us what's left," Josiah said, nodding at Nathan. He walked southerly towards the edge of the camp, and Nathan followed. Ezra stood for a moment, as if trying to catch his bearings, but then walked after the two of them. As they were about to clear the campsite, Chris called from where he was, halfway up the rough hillside on the opposite side.

"Holler if you see anything," he ordered. "I want to know everything you might find."

"Yep," Buck said.

"Will do," Nathan agreed.

"Nathan, take a look at this," Josiah called then, gesturing him and Ezra over. The ground where he was standing was clearly disturbed, with broken branches and half crushed plants that extended well down the hillside and out of sight. Nathan looked at Ezra, who was studying the disturbance with solemn intensity.

"This wasn't planned," Josiah said. "Someone slipped and fell here." He also looked at Ezra. Ezra just frowned slightly, and met their gazes.

"I told you I fell," he said, sounding very vague. He turned then, taking a couple of steps back towards the camp before stopping. Nathan shook his head and slipped a little on the soft ground as he searched for more signs. Josiah moved a little further along the edge of the camp, slipping a few times himself on the dead leaves and pine needles.

"I was getting water," Ezra said suddenly, staring towards the cold fire-pit in the center. "I was getting water when I heard Vin yell my name."

That stopped Nathan and Josiah cold.

Ezra, meanwhile, moved slightly to the right of where he'd been standing, as if readjusting to better position an image in his head. His brow furrowed and his head tilted slightly, while his gaze locked on something that clearly wasn't there.

"Chris!" Josiah shouted. "Buck!"

Ezra was squinting now, as if looking into sunlight. "I was filling the canteens. There's a stream down there…" He gestured down the hill, in the direction Josiah had been heading. "I had three, one for each of us. I was filling one up when Vin's shout echoed through the trees, calling…calling my name. Then there was a gunshot and Vin cried out in pain. I didn't think, I just ran towards…towards the gunshot." He frowned and looked at Nathan. "Do I normally do that? Run towards gunfire?"

Nathan smiled softly. "All the time."

"That doesn't seem very intelligent."

"No. But you would have been worried for your friend. That tends to overrule sense."

Ezra blinked at him, as if trying to puzzle that through.

"What else do you remember?" Chris asked as he strode towards them, his voice tight with tension. Buck had also reached them, though the cousins had stayed where they were.

Ezra frowned, and looked again at the campsite. His eyes shifted, as if studying it, or, perhaps, remembering it.

"I remember…I came through here. I had a gun." He looked down at his left hand, then up again. "There was a man on the ground, over there." He pointed towards the place they'd found the blood this morning. "I think he was dead."

"Was it Vin?" Chris asked. At Ezra's frown, Chris cursed, rounding on him. "Damn it, Ezra, you have to remember! Was it Vin?"

"Son," Josiah said gently, getting between them before Chris could lash or Ezra could panic. "It's alright. You're helping. Can you tell us, what did the man on the ground look like?"

Ezra grimaced, eyeing Chris nervously before looking again towards the camp. "I couldn't see his face. He was, uh, he was facing away from me. But he had, um, light brown hair? Long, I think."

"Long," Buck repeated unhappily. Nathan frowned as well-Coombs had short, sandy colored hair.

"What about the color of his jacket?" Josiah asked. "Do you remember that?"

"Brown. Tan. It was tan. I think it was fringed."

Chris sighed heavily, lowering his head. Ezra clearly didn't understand why, the confusion clear on his face.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

"Why did you say you thought he was dead?" Nathan asked then.

Ezra shrugged. "The shots. There were two in all. And he wasn't moving. I remember….There was blood on the back of his jacket, a great deal. I was going to run over to him, to see, but…" He frowned again, more deeply. "But, um…I…" He closed his eyes and shook his head once. "I don't know. I don't know. I…I don't why I didn't get closer. I know I meant to, but-"

"You couldn't," Josiah said then, and everyone heard the anger in his voice. "You didn't go to your friend because you couldn't."

Ezra opened his eyes and he looked at Josiah. The older man was frowning down at the ground. As one, they followed his gaze, and Nathan swore.

Beneath the leaves at their feet, the ground was stained with something dark. Josiah knelt down and brushed aside the leaves and fir tree needles, revealing dirt soaked with dried blood. Gently, he picked up something shiny—a missing button from Ezra's shirt.

"I remember," Ezra said, his eyes locked on the button, his uninjured hand touching his head. "I was hit from behind. The pain…I remember how much it hurt. Everything was bright lights and agony and I fell. I never saw who did it. Just…I couldn't seem to move." He swayed suddenly, and Josiah took his arm. Ezra leaned into it; he was visibly shaking now.

Chris frowned. "So that's Vin's blood over there. Did you see the prisoner?"

Ezra frowned. "I don't remember anyone else. Just Vin."

"So Coombs could have been the one that hit you?"

Ezra looked at Chris, then down at the blood on the ground. "Yes. I suppose so." His legs buckled then, and Josiah's hold on his arm became a grip around Ezra's waist, who gasped in pain.

"Get him back to the fire," Chris ordered Josiah. "Everyone else, back to your searches!"

Nathan went with Josiah and Ezra, helping to rest Ezra down on the blankets. A touch to the man's forehead confirmed his fears—Ezra's fever had spiked, and the shaking was too much to ignore. Nathan looked up at Josiah. His fear must have been evident.

"What does he need?" Josiah asked.

"He needs a bath and a bed, and real medicine. And more…he needs leeches."

Josiah paled. "Leeches?"

"Those bruises aren't fading. They're getting worse. Leeches can help relieve the pressure on his insides."

"But—"

"Dry Ridge is only a half-day's ride," Nathan said. "I can get him to Doc Pratt's. He'll have leeches and other things to reduce the swelling and fever. Might even be able to do some surgery, if it doesn't work."

Josiah just looked at him. "But what about Vin? If he's shot, he'll need you. Can Ezra wait?"

Nathan frowned and stood up, gesturing Josiah to follow him. Ezra had his eyes closed and didn't seem to notice as the two men moved away.

"Nathan?" Josiah asked, keeping his voice low so Ezra wouldn't hear. "What is it?"

"I…" Nathan swallowed. "I had hoped that his body would be able to absorb the damage it's sustained on its own, but it's not."

"Meaning?"

Nathan lowered his gaze. "Meaning it's probably already too late."

Josiah closed his eyes.

"Found something!" Buck's voice shouted from the far edge of the clearing. Nathan met Josiah's gaze, then the two of them jogged over to where Buck's voice had come from. Behind them, Ezra opened his eyes, but didn't move from where he was sitting, his gaze lost.

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"Clear tracks. Two horses, headed thataway." Buck pointed generally towards the rising sun. "One of them's definitely Peso—hoof-print has that notch in it that Vin's been meaning to fix."

"That's the direction of their homestead," Mark Eaton said, the oldest of the cousins. He shaded his eyes with his hand. "It's maybe a day and a half from here, on the far side of town."

"Town center is more north of here, not east," Betty corrected.

"You know what I mean," Mark said, snarling a little at his sibling. "It's northeast of here," he explained to Chris. "At the far edge of the township."

"You said the ride was a day and a half?" Chris asked.

"From here, yeah. It's only a day from town center."

"Is that day and a half cross country, or via the road?"

"By road, but at a normal pace. You push the horses, you could get there faster."

Buck shook his head. "Well, no way they're going by road. Coombs will want to stay in the woods."

"And if Vin's hurt, they won't be moving fast," Nathan added.

"Still, assuming Ezra was knocked out two days ago, they likely would've reached the homestead last night. We're still a day behind."

"Are you sure they went to the homestead?" Betty Eaton said, hands on her hips. "Maybe Martin has just run off."

"Nah," Buck said, frowning. "He took Vin with him. No reason for that, especially since he'd slow him down. Maybe he wants Vin's help to hide his tracks or—"

"Or," Chris said, eyeing Buck, "to do what he was begging you to help him with. Figure out what happened to his wife, and to find and rescue her."

Buck's face screwed up, clearly still not on board with that notion.

"Either way," Chris said, "it's our best lead. Mark, you take me, Nate and Josiah to that homestead. Buck, you and the cousins follow the trail from here, in case he has just run off. Keep Ezra with you. We'll meet-"

"Chris," Nathan said, "wait. I can't."

That earned him a stare, but Nathan pushed on. "I have to take Ezra to Dry Ridge, to Doc Pratt's."

"Why? He seems fine."

"He seems fine?" Buck repeated, incredulous. "Are you kidding?"

"He's not fine," Nathan stated unhappily. "I was wrong. I told you that I didn't think he was bleeding inside, because I had hoped…" He grimaced. "It was a foolish hope. The fever, the chills, the horrible pain he's trying to ignore, they're all signs. He's dying. He needs to be in a bed, needs something to relieve the bleeding."

Chris said nothing at first, just remained strangely cold. In contrast, Buck's eyes had widened, and he looked desperately between Chris and Nathan, as if one of them might take it back.

"And if we do take him to the Doc's?" Chris asked softly.

"I don't know," Nathan admitted, hating that he couldn't be more certain. "But he'll die if we keep him out here."

Chris closed his eyes. "Hell," he muttered.

"No," Buck said, pressing a hand to his chest, "Nathan, he can't die. Not like this, not for something like this, please."

"Vin will need you too," Chris said to Nathan. "Ezra said he'd been shot."

"I know." Nathan gripped his hands into fists. "It's an impossible choice, but what can I—?"

"I can take Ezra," Josiah said, stepping up and touching Nathan's arm. "They'll need you to be with them for Vin. I'll get Ezra to the Doc's." He lowered his hand. "And we'll both be there when you get back with Vin."

Nathan opened his mouth, but then closed it. He wanted to be with Ezra, to help the Doc, explain to him what he knew and be there for his friend. But, if he were being honest, Josiah could do the same. And his connection to Ezra was just as deep. He'd keep his word, as much as he could.

"What do you say?" Josiah asked him. Nathan exhaled slowly, hating having to make any kind of decision.

"Do you need to go with Ezra to the Doc's?" Chris asked, his voice tight.

Nathan looked at Chris, knowing his eyes were just as desperate as Buck's right now. "I…suppose not."

Chris nodded. "Then you come with me and Mark. The rest of you-"

"I can get you there faster that Mark," Betty said suddenly. "Been there lots more than Mark has. And I'm a faster rider."

Chris frowned at her. "I don't—"

"She's right," Mark said, looking slightly embarrassed by that fact but also a little proud. "And she's also a good shot. As good as any of us."

"And I'll get you there in less than a day," Betty promised. "I swear. I done it before. Know some good shortcuts."

Chris's frown deepened. Eventually, though, he inclined his head. "Fine. Mark, you're with Buck; Betty you're with us."

"I should go with you to the homestead," Buck said. "I can—"

"No arguments, Buck."

"I did this, Chris. I need to be there—"

Nathan closed his eyes as the argument continued. Josiah had already left, to get back to Ezra in the clearing and, after a moment, he moved to follow. All he could think about was that he could lose two friends today—Vin and Ezra—and, from the argument still clashing behind him, from how much guilt he could hear in Buck's voice and the way Chris was still clearly blaming him, he might lose Buck as well.

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TBC… _Next chapter will have some big reveals, I promise!_

 _Oh, and, yeah, not a doctor or a scientist. Sorry for all the incorrect medical stuff._


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N - you all do a writer's heart good!_

 **OVER THE EDGE  
** **By TIPPER**

M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7

 **CHAPTER SIX: COOMBS**

Vin blinked away the dizziness, fighting the sensation that had been plaguing him for the last two days. The burning sensation in his shoulder didn't help, even if he knew it was healing. Shifting in the chair he was tied to, he glared at the man tending the injury, relishing the way the man flinched every time he caught Vin's stare.

"I said I was sorry," Coombs said, washing the wound with alcohol from his home's kit. "I don't know how many more times I can say it."

"It don't matter," Vin snarled. "Because it'll never be enough."

Coombs flinched again from the venom in Vin's voice, but he continued his gentle tending of the wound.

When Vin had woken up the first time, being tended by Coombs somewhere far from their original campsite, his first question had been what Coombs had done to Ezra. At first, the skittish man wouldn't say, just said that he'd knocked Ezra out and tied him up. But the fact that all the rope he and Ezra had been carrying was either around Vin's wrists or still in the saddlebags had shown that a lie.

It didn't take long for Coombs to start begging forgiveness for more than just shooting Vin; he started begging forgiveness for killing Ezra.

"I've told you a hundred times it was an accident! I just meant to knock him down, take his guns, but I must have hit too hard, and then he hit that rock on the ground…." Coombs swallowed. "What could I have done?"

"Not hit him in the first place."

"I explained that too! Ezra's idea wasn't a bad one, and I was grateful, but it wasn't going to help me find the truth! I needed you to come with me, and I knew you wouldn't do it voluntarily."

"You have no idea what I might've done! Or what Ezra would've done!"

"Exactly! And if you changed your minds again, where would I be? Where would Karen be?"

"I know where Ezra'd be. He'd be alive."

"And I'll go to hell for that, but…but my wife comes first."

Vin stared at the man, at the pale blue eyes brimming with tears for the millionth time since they met, the waxen, pox riddled face, the badly cut sand colored hair. He had innocence pouring from him, as pure as JD's, even though Coombs was a good decade older. Vin still didn't believe this man capable of cold-blooded murder, but that no longer mattered. He'd killed Ezra, who was as close to him as a brother. One way or another, this man was going down.

Coombs wisely said nothing more after that, finishing with his cleaning of the wound and bandaging Vin's shoulder again. Vin hissed in pain a couple of times, but otherwise refused to show this man any further emotion.

Fact was, his anger with Coombs wasn't anywhere near the anger he felt for himself. He'd allowed this to happen; it was his fault Ezra was dead. He should have listened to Buck, kept Coombs tied up, but instead he'd been a fool. Ezra had kept his promise to Buck—had told Vin to keep Coombs tied up-but as soon as Ezra'd left the camp to get water, Vin had untied Coombs and turned his back to check on the dinner, and that's when Coombs went for the gun. He'd shouted for Ezra, but it was too late, Coombs had gotten the Mare's Leg and fired—wildly, sure, but he still hit Vin. When Vin staggered, his right shoulder on fire, Coombs had used the butt of the gun to knock him down.

When he'd woken again, several hours later, he'd been tied up and sitting a long way away from where he'd been, his head throbbing and his shoulder still bleeding heavily. Coombs had been trying to clean and bandage it, and the pain was what had woken him. He'd tried to stay awake after finding about Ezra, but between his head and the blood loss, it'd been impossible.

He'd woken up a few more times after that, usually from his position hanging over Peso's saddle, slipping and sliding. He could smell the drying vomit on the horse's side, smell the blood stains drying on his clothes, and it usually resulted in him retching even more. The horse was moving slowly and Coombs was obviously not clever enough to secure him tightly enough to get them to move faster; the whole thing had been torture.

At some point last night, they'd arrived here, which Coombs had told him was his homestead. Which meant that he'd been serious about why he'd needed Vin—to figure out what had really happened to Coombs' wife.

Vin watched as Coombs walked away with the unused bandages and water, back to the small kitchen in the corner. Sunlight was pouring through the windows, suggesting it was morning. Frowning, he looked more carefully around the house.

It was a mess. Not in the lived-in sort of way, like his wagon or Nathan's clinic, but a place where someone had been in a fight. An ugly one.

Furniture was strewn about—some on its side, a chair broken, shards of glass from a vase and dead flowers on the wood floor. The water puddle had long since dried up, but the state of the flowers gave Vin a good reference point as to when it had happened. The petals still had some softness to them—couldn't have been more than a couple of weeks—about the time Karen Coombs went missing.

Martin Coombs returned, holding a pistol and a knife. Vin didn't move in the chair, just watched the knife as Coombs walked around his back.

"I'm going to cut you free," Coombs said. "Nothing funny, now. I was a little awkward with that sawed off of yours—again, I didn't actually mean to hit you, and I'm sorry again. But I'm pretty good with a pistol, so I'll hit what I aim for this time."

Vin said nothing. Fact was, he hadn't been conscious enough to put up much a fight before, but having slept on a real pallet last night and not, say, slung over the back of a horse with all the blood rushing to his already throbbing head, had apparently done a world of good. The minute Coombs gave him a chance…

"So now what?" he asked.

"Now you're going to help figure out what happened here."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because…because I have a gun."

Vin sneered.

"And…" Coombs said, sounding nervous, "and because I think you do believe in justice, no matter what I did to get us here. You want to know what happened to her too."

Vin set his jaw. It wasn't a lie—he did want to know. He felt the ropes tug on his arms as Coombs cut them, and then again on his wrists. He drew his arms and hands forward, wincing a little at the agony in his shoulder, and rubbed at the rope burns. He stood up as Coombs came around the front, standing just out of range as Vin glared at him.

"So?" Coombs said. "Will you help?"

"I didn't think I had a choice."

"You don't, but…but…" Coombs faltered, and finally shook his head, backing up further towards the front door of the homestead. "Anyway, see what you can see. Please."

Still rubbing his wrists, Vin turned around slowly, ignoring the weakness in his legs, the agony of his shoulder and the headache as he studied his surroundings.

It was a single room dwelling. On one side, partially hidden behind a curtain, was a double bed. The covers were messy, but no indications that the fight had included that space. The kitchen was on the opposite side of the cabin, a small black metal stove with a chimney that clearly also doubled as the room's heat source. One of the small windows near the stove was smashed.

He walked around the broken furniture to the kitchen, ignoring the still hot kettle and the bowl with the bloody bandages. There were cooking implements on the floor, as if someone had tried to grab for something and they all fell to the ground. He studied what he could see, and then frowned.

"Do you have a skillet?" he asked.

"What? Yes, of course, it's usually…." Coombs had moved closer, and was looking at the pots hanging near the stove. "It's usually there." He indicated the area with his pistol.

Vin nodded. The skillet was missing, so was the stove's poker. He walked out of the kitchen area and did a circuit around the rest of the room, plotting the course of the fight as best he could, and looked towards the back door. It was slightly ajar.

He ended up back in the middle, near the chair he'd been tied to.

"She was probably here at the table," he said finally, indicating the table next to him, "working on her knitting." The knitting basket was on the ground, the yarn a jumble, the knitting needles loose. One of them had dried blood on it. "Someone came in, and threatened her. She backed away, and he came after her. She tried to get the furniture between him and her, and he tossed it aside. He might even have reached her once, but she used the needles to hurt him."

Coombs was staring at the needles, clearly trying to picture it.

Vin indicated the kitchen area with his head. "She then went to the kitchen, to get another weapon. The skillet maybe. The poker. Anything that she could use. He attacked her in there, and something went through the window—something small and hard. My guess is she then rounded the stove, and he tripped over the stuff on the ground, giving her time to go out the back."

Coombs followed all this with glassy eyes, but he nodded when Vin looked at him.

"Then we go out back," Coombs said huskily. "Is there light enough for you to start tracking?"

Vin considered, then shook his head. "Maybe another hour, when the sun is fully up." He hoped Coombs didn't see through the lie. He sat down in the chair, not needing to feign tiredness, the arm connected to the shot shoulder throbbing. Just walking around had been hard. He wondered how much blood he'd actually lost?

But mostly he needed to stall. Because by now he knew Chris would be looking for him.

"Can I have some water?" he asked.

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Ezra blinked, aware that there was much movement in the camp now. People were getting ready to leave. They must have found the trail.

He wondered if he was going with them, or if he was being left here. He didn't mind being left. He was awfully tired.

When a shadow fell across his chest, he expected it to be Nathan or Josiah. But the shadow resolved itself into Chris, still all dressed in black, guns on his hips and, oddly, smiling at him.

Wait, was he smiling? Yes, he was, standing over him with the livery behind, a banner flapping overhead saying something about statehood…

" _You done good, Ezra."_

"What?" he asked. He saw Chris's image flicker, the frown and a smile warring together.

" _You done good, Ezra."_

 _He couldn't remember the last time Chris had smiled at him. He'd saved Mary; he was the hero!_

 _And then Nathan found the money…_

" _He'd be dead if it weren't for this."_

 _And just like that, Chris's expression morphed, turning to the inevitable disappointment._

 _Ah, to hell with it. Mary and Nathan were still smiling, he was still a hero—what was a little tarnish?_

"Mr. Larabee," he said, feeling woozy now as he smiled, "in the future, I think it would be best just…" He huffed a laugh. "…not to burden me with other people's money."

And his mind fluttered again, as images came like a hundred black winged birds flitted through his consciousness: standing back to back with Chris in a streetfight; Chris throwing him keys to get out of jail; Chris standing in front of him, telling him never to run off again…

The shadow knelt down, and he saw Chris's face more clearly. There was no disappointment there. Instead, he looked…. Actually, he didn't know how to describe it. Surprised? Pleased? Concerned? Upset? It was confusing.

The gunslinger reached a hand forward to touch his good arm.

"You're going be okay, Ezra."

"I am?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah, you are, because you know how I feel about you running out on me."

Ezra smiled, remembering those words delivered in sharp clarity to him years ago. "Yes. I do."

"Then we understand each other." He stood up again, the still pale early morning sky shimmering above him.

"Fine," Ezra agreed, his eyes closing of their own accord, "but what are we planning to do with that money?"

He heard Chris huff a laugh, and Ezra continued to smile as he fell asleep.

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Behind the cabin, Vin quickly found the skillet. Dropped or knocked out of someone's hands, it was hard to tell, but the fact that two people had then started running was pretty clear despite the age of the tracks and the rain in between. When people ran, they kicked up more dirt, left deeper treads—those marks were still visible.

"She tried to fend him off with the skillet, but dropped it and was chased," Vin told Coombs, kneeling next to the skillet and following the tracks with his eyes. He pointed northerly. "That way."

"That's towards the canyon. Why would she go that way?"

"If she was avoiding someone, she may have just run in the opposite direction from her attacker."

"Oh." Coombs expression was still confused. Vin frowned, not sure what was confusing about what he'd said. He stood, only to stagger a little when blood rushed to his head. Coombs moved closer, but Vin held up a hand.

"I'm fine."

Too late, it occurred to him that, if Coombs had gotten closer, he might have gotten the gun away from him. Stupid.

Sighing, he stared walking, following the tracks, holding his arm to his chest to take the strain off his shoulder.

"Wait," Coombs said, and Vin stopped, looking back. "How far are we going?"

Vin frowned. "I don't know. As far as she could run, I suppose."

"That could be miles. She was good at running."

"So?"

"So I should bring water. And lunch. And you should eat breakfast and drink before we go, get back your strength."

Vin just frowned more, not understanding this man at all. He knew why he wanted to stall, but why would Coombs? This was the second time that Coombs had delayed the search, first by saying that waiting another hour could only make it easier, and now by talking about eating.

"We'll go after you eat," Coombs said. "It'll be fine. I don't…we don't have to rush."

Okay, now that was downright bewildering. No rush? Surely, by now, Buck had found Ezra. A search party might be on its way to find them as well, likely with a furious Chris leading it. So why, after all his urgency to find out what happened to his wife, did Coombs want to delay?

But he also wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It gave Buck and Chris more time to catch up, he'd eat whatever this man wanted him to.

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They found the road heading east with Betty Eaton's help, and, true to her word, she was fast on the back of her horse. They had to push their own mounts to keep up with her. Miles were being eaten up with determination.

Buck had finally given in, accepting that someone had to go with the Eaton boys and track Coombs from the camp, even if he hated the idea. The one nice thing was that, due to the rain, the horses had left fairly deep marks, making it a pretty easy trail to follow. If the homestead was the final destination, it shouldn't take them long to follow.

Josiah, meantime, had taken Ezra to Dry Ridge. Ezra hadn't said a word as he'd been helped up onto the saddle in front of the preacher, seeming to have gotten lost in some memory again. He'd muttered something about birds, but it hadn't made much sense. He was asleep again as soon as Josiah started moving, the preacher promising Nathan that'd he treat him like fine crystal the whole way.

Nathan just hoped that Doc Pratt could do something, because if Ezra died before he saw him again, he'd never forgive himself.

He spurred his mount even faster after Betty and Chris.

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"Are you, uh…" Coombs swallowed audibly, his voice sounding hoarse as he pushed aside a tree branch. "Are you sure this is the way?"

Vin looked over his shoulder at him, standing almost on top of a woman's shoe print, deeply embedded in the soft earth.

"Yeah."

"Just…I mean…this seems implausible. There's no path." Coombs hands were opening and closing nervously around the hunting rifle he was now carrying.

"She was running, Coombs. She didn't care if she were on a path."

"I know. I do. But the ground's so rough, all this mesquite, it must of torn her up something awful running this way."

Vin didn't disagree. She'd broken through a lot of nasty, prickly things trying to get away. She'd probably lost some of her momentum doing it, but the man chasing her hadn't caught up. Coombs was right – she must have been very quick on her feet.

"It's just…" Coombs had stopped again. "I wasn't expecting…"

"Expecting?"

Coombs shrugged. "Nothing. I don't know. I think…I think I'm afraid of what we're going to find."

Vin sighed, and seeing a nearby boulder, went to sit on it. His head was really throbbing now and his shoulder seemed to ache in time with it. He rubbed at his arm, which felt weak and useless because of the wound in his shoulder, and looked around.

"What if she's dead?" Coombs asked softly. "What if, at the end of this trail, we find her body?"

Vin sighed. "Then at least you'll know."

Coombs lifted his head, eyes glancing across Vin's face quickly before shifting away.

"We've been doing this for a few hours," Coombs said then. "Should we…should we eat lunch? It's past mid-day."

Vin almost shrugged, but thought the better of it at the last second. "If you like."

Coombs nodded quickly and, without letting go of his gun, dropped the bag from off his shoulder and tossed it to Vin. It was a poor toss, and Vin almost missed it, causing him to fall to his knees in the sandy earth and yelping as he pulled on his shoulder.

"Oh God! I'm so sorry! I didn't—"

"It's fine!" Vin snapped, even though it wasn't. _Christ that had hurt_! "It's fine," he repeated through gritted teeth. "I got it."

Coombs swallowed but nodded, sitting down on another boulder next to the trail, looking at his wife's footprints.

Vin pulled the bag of food closer, then stopped, seeing something new in the soft earth in this area. More footprints. One was the same size as the man chasing Karen. The other wasn't. It was larger and, curiously, pointing the wrong way. They were both pointing the wrong way-back to the homestead, and at a walk.

He stared at the prints for a while, then realized he could see some others. He hadn't been looking for them, but now that he was, they were everywhere. The larger footprints were close together and carefully to the side of the path the runners had taken. It was if…

 _Oh god no_.

"You find something?" Coombs was standing again, looking at Vin.

"I, uh…" Vin frowned. Fact is, he could only think of one reason for the pattern he was seeing, and it was like a knife to his gut. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

Coombs had moved closer, though still not close enough for Vin to attack him. He was trying to see what Vin was looking at.

"It's nothing," Vin said, not sure why he was lying but going on instinct. "Animal tracks. I thought it was another set of footprints, but it's not."

"Oh," Coombs sounded disappointed. He moved back to his boulder and sat down heavily. Vin got up as well and sat on his own rock. He opened the bag, pulling out the bread and apples stowed inside.

Coombs was right to be worried about what they might find at the end of this.

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Their horses were breathing heavily, sweat pouring down the hides. Chris kept his eyes on Betty's mount just a few yards ahead—he had to admit, she was as fast as she'd promised. He glanced over his shoulder to see Nathan bringing up the rear, the healer's face covered in sweat and grime from the hard ride. Nathan gave him a nod and Chris returned his attention forward.

Betty rounded a corner on the road, the trees blocking the view and she suddenly squealed, his horse coming to a sliding stop. Chris pulled up hard, and he heard Nathan do as well, the healer swearing blue murder as the horses barely avoided ramming into each other.

He immediately saw what had caused her to stop, and he rode forward, getting in front of the still obviously panicked girl and her panting horse.

Chris raised dropped the reins and raised a hand at the guns pointed at them, six of them in all, and spoke to their leader.

"Sheriff, what the hell?"

Sheriff Donnelly of Blue River glared back over the barrel of his long rifle. "Don't even think about going for a gun, Larabee."

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TBC

 _A/N – To answer one the questions I got, JD is indeed watching the town for the others. He doesn't know that any of this is happening. He had to stay behind because there are prisoners at the jail. But as soon the Marshals pick them up, he'll be on his way-and soon. I promise!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N – sorry for the delay, folks (esp. you Killash!). It's a holiday weekend here in the states, so I wasn't home yesterday._

 **OVER THE EDGE  
** **By TIPPER**

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 **CHAPTER SEVEN: THE TRUTH**

The sun was low in the sky when the path Vin and Coombs had been following came to an abrupt stop. The trees, brush and mesquite fell away, and the sandy ground resolving into hard, dark red rock that stretched away from them for a good thirty feet before ending at pink and purple streaked pale blue sky.

Vin climbed over some sage onto the hard rock ledge, seeing the broken and ripped holes where someone had tried to jump it while running. Once clear, he huffed in surprise at the wide expanse of canyon lands beyond-until you were right on top of them, you wouldn't have known the canyons were even there. With each step towards the edge, the red and gold landscape sharpened, and he could make out striped canyon wall on the far side of a wide, colorful red and white wash. It reminded him a little of the continental divide, except less wide and less colorful.

He walked to the edge and looked out, his mind cataloguing the small river running below, the wide, heavily rutted dirt road running alongside it, and, not far down the wash, a small shack next to fenced in pasture lands filled with sheep. He could just make out the tiny, black figure of a small man, or boy, sitting on a fence and watching the animals. To the west, he could see the heavy sun dropping towards the horizon, its orange light bathing the wash in a warm golden light.

He backed up and studied the ledge more carefully. There wasn't a lot of dirt up here, but where there was dirt he could see scars in the rock from metal hoof prints and sometimes boot prints. The ledge itself ran a ways in both directions, one end of it sloping down towards the wash. Probably used to be a good vantage point for the local Indian tribes.

"Is there a way up from below?" Vin asked, looking in the most obvious direction—the direction the horses had come from.

"Yes," Coombs replied, his voice soft. Vin glanced at the man, not missing how pale he'd become, even in the rosy glow of the setting sun. If anything, his sallow skin looked even more wan, his cheeks more sunken, and the pupils in his blue eyes so dilated they took on the color of pitch. Coombs seemed to shake out of whatever was haunting him and pointed generally in the direction Vin had been looking. "There's a path up from the canyon in that direction."

"Wide enough for horses?"

"Yes. Several astride if needs be."

"What's the road down there? Is it just for the local ranches?"

Coombs shook his head, glassy eyes blinking at the view. "No. It's the main road between Blue River and Ridge City."

"Ridge City," Vin repeated softly. "Where the train is."

Coombs said nothing, if he heard at all. He just stared at the scenery, the rifle now held so tightly in his hands it looked like it might snap.

Vin pressed his lips together, feeling increasingly sick as he pieced together everything he was seeing. He returned to the cliff edge, looking directly down the forty or so feet to the ground below.

Tiny, fluttery things shimmered in the breeze in the midst of what was clearly a crushed patch of sage and mesquite, where something heavy had landed. The fading sun was catching tiny bit of fabrics from what had likely been a yellow or white dress, giving them a strange sort of life.

The heavy wagon ruts leading up to their location was also clear, the damage to the delicate, brittle earth probably permanent.

And about halfway down the canyon call, stuck between a pair of rough rocks, was a black poker.

Vin exhaled heavily, and walked back to where Karen Coombs had emerged from the forest onto the ledge, and turned to look at the scene, watching it play through his mind as if he'd been there.

 _She'd burst out into the open, probably grateful to finally be free of the woods that had slowed her pace, giving him time to catch up to her, and had run to the edge. It was a busy road, so she might have been looking for help, to see someone and get their attention. Maybe she'd seen the boy watching his flock, or a coach carrying passengers to the train in Ridge City, or one of the locals driving home from town. Or perhaps she just screamed to the heavens, hoping someone along the wash would hear her._

 _But the delay was probably enough for him to catch up, bursting out of the woods behind her, violent and frightening. She'd have screamed in terror, turning towards the way down, but he'd likely run on the angle and cut her off, blocking her way. She'd backed up, looking for another way out, maybe to run in the other direction._

 _But he'd probably had a weapon. The poker._

 _And probably a gun._

A gun. It was the only thing that might have stopped her, unless she were injured _._

There had been bits of torn fabric and blood in a few places along the way, but from scratches and cuts—she'd seemed sure-footed otherwise, so she likely was still on her feet when she reached this point.

 _She'd have backed up to the edge, begging him to stop, begging him not to hurt her. But he wasn't hearing her._

 _He'd attacked, hitting her with the poker; she'd fought, maybe even managed to get the poker free of his hands, to pull it towards her, but that pull was her undoing. The momentum would have been too much._

 _She'd gone over the edge._

Vin looked at Coombs, his eyes dark. The sun had hit the horizon; the wash below was shadowing with the oncoming night.

 _And he'd walked back home._

The rifle was still tightly held in Coombs hands, and Vin knew that he'd also put his pistol behind his back.

"So…" Coombs said, clearly trembling as he accepted Vin's bleak gaze, "is she still alive?"

Vin said nothing to that. The question was too ridiculous.

"You lied to us," he said instead to Coombs. "You lied to me."

Coombs blinked. "What?"

"You said…you said they hadn't found the body."

Coombs frowned. "I don't understand."

"There are wagon tracks down there, clearly leading up to where she fell. They took her body into town."

Coombs shook his head, stepping closer to the edge and looking down. "She fell?" he asked dumbly.

"You know she did."

"I don't—"

"You _know_ ," Vin snarled, "because you were here when it happened."

That jerked the other man's head up, his eyes wide as he stared at Vin. "What? No! I wasn't! I told you—"

"She ran all the way here, Coombs. Running from someone who had the same shoes as you, the same size foot, the same weight as you. You think I'm an idiot? Then, when it was all over, that same someone walked back the way he came-back _home_."

"No," Coombs said vehemently, shaking his head. "No, it's not true."

"Someone saw her, probably not long after she fell, maybe even when she did fall." He pointed towards the road. "It's a main road, you said. Stagecoaches run along that route. There's farmers up and down the wash. Hell, there's a boy right there, watchin' his sheep!"

Coombs just blinking, still shaking his head and whispering "no."

"Someone told the sheriff, they took her away, and then Donnelly brought his men up here. One of them tracked the same path we just walked, followed it all the way back to your house. I know, because I saw the tracker's footprints, saw the slow and steady way he followed the route, staying just outside of it most of the time, just as I would have done."

Coombs shut his eyes, holding the rifle tightly to his chest and muttering something under his breath. Vin moved closer, wanting to get in grabbing range.

"Donnelly didn't railroad you. He just did his job, and he did it right. He got his man."

Coombs' expression turned into a grimace of pain, his head bowing towards his chest. He rocked slightly on his feet. Vin was just a few feet away now. He took another soft step.

"Donnelly's tracker, when he got to the ranch, he found you, didn't he? Found you doing what? Sitting in the same chair you had me tied to? And I'm betting Donnelly and his men showed up not long after."

Coombs eyes opened slightly, just slits, seemingly staring at nothing.

"You said you weren't home when any of this happened, right? If that's true, then where were you?" Vin moved even closer. "Where _were_ you?"

Like a rattlesnake, Coombs took a step back and pointed the rifle right at Vin's head. The glassy eyes were gone, replaced by something Vin could only describe as ice cold. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he was looking at a completely new person.

Shocked, Vin stepped back, opening his hands up. _What the hell_?

"I was exactly where you said I was, Vin Tanner. I was in my house, having just returned from killing Martin's whore of a wife. And, yeah, Donnelly's tracker found me there, but Donnelly and his posse didn't show up fast enough to save him. How do you think I got away?"

Vin's breath quickened, certain now that something very horrible had just happened inside the man in front of him. Was this for real? He shook his head.

"Did you say, _Martin's_ wife?" he asked. "But you…you're…"

"Like hell I am. He's a total bastard, always running away and hiding when things get too hard for him to handle. He didn't want to see that she was cheating on him with every man that came by. She was too pretty for him, but he just couldn't see it."

Vin snapped his mouth shut, but he couldn't hide the confusion on his face. Whereas, every instinct he had before had told him Martin Coombs was innocent, now every instinct told him the exact opposite.

"I was the one who always had to curb her," Coombs continued, "to teach her that going behind his back was wrong. But she wouldn't learn. She never learned! That day, she'd flirted with the baker in town right in front of him! He looked away, ashamed, hurt. I'd had enough. When we got back to the house, I was determined to teach that slut a lesson, one I knew Martin would never teach her."

"You mean you beat her," Vin said, sickened, hearing Buck's voice in his head, knowing his friend had been right. "You actually beat her."

"Of course I did. How else can you make someone learn? But it was just meant to be a beating—it didn't have to escalate—but when I went for her she stabbed me with the needle as if she didn't deserve what was coming to her, screaming for Martin to come back the whole time! I chased her into the kitchen, and she threw a mug at me! Broke the window. Do you know how much that window cost? Then she grabbed the skillet, and I grabbed the poker."

Vin just nodded, unable to deny the story—it matched everything he'd seen.

"When she saw that, she ran. I grabbed Martin's pistol and went after her." He shrugged then, smiling over the rifle barrel. "And the rest, you already know."

Vin swallowed, and he shook his head. "No," he said, his voice choked, "not everything."

"What more is there?"

Vin just stared, wide-eyed. "Are you a demon?"

Coombs looked surprised at the question, and then he smiled, evil and pure, like something out of the stories Vin had been told as a child. It gave him chills he hadn't felt since he was still at his grandfather's knee.

"I'm no demon, boy," Coombs said. "I'm just…Martin's protector. When he runs and hides, I come out. Now," he shrugged, "don't get me wrong. I don't want to come out—I'd rather Martin grow a pair—but I've learned to live with it."

Vin took in a deep breath. "And he's hiding now?"

"Obviously." Coombs' eyes narrowed. "Because I have to kill you now." He shook his head, as if disappointed by this fact. "I knew this was coming. I'd wanted him to leave you at the camp after we'd killed your smooth-talking friend, but he refused to listen to me. He never likes to believe the truth I tell him, always hides behind some lie or other to keep his conscience safe, but perhaps this is a good thing. If he accepts she's dead because of what you've shown him, then he can run away for real this time." The evil smile was back. "I guess I have you to thank for that."

Vin snorted. But he was also thinking—Coombs hadn't killed him yet. Maybe "Martin" was still in there somewhere, holding this demon back.

"You don't have to kill me," he said. "You could just knock me out. I won't tell them anything."

"Nah," Coombs' sneered. "I've seen your skills, remember? You'll be on poor Martin like a trail-sore cowboy on a hooker soon as you wake up. I can't leave you behind, just like I couldn't let Donnelly's tracker live."

"Then someone else will just track you."

"Maybe."

"No maybes on that, especially if you kill me—you seen what my friends are like—but maybe I can help you. I'm not just a tracker, you know. I'm a fugitive from the state of Texas. Means I know a thing or two about escaping the long arm of the law."

"Nice, next you'll tell me you're secretly a woman in disguise."

"I'm not lyin'."

"Even if you were telling the truth," Coombs said, "I don't care. I'd rather take my chances than trust you."

Vin pressed his lips together. He needed another angle. And for some reason, his mind wondered what Ezra would do.

"Walk to the edge," Coombs ordered. "So I don't have to roll you off."

Vin took a couple of steps closer to the edge, also shifting closer to Coombs at the same time. As if the gambler were whispering in his ear, he had an idea.

"Only thing is," Vin said, "if you kill me, then Martin'll never find out what really happened to his wife."

That earned him a slow eye-blink. Then Coombs frowned. "What?"

"How she survived the fall. And where she is now. I'd think he'd want to know."

Coombs shook his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What are you talking about? I saw her die."

"No you didn't. You weren't there. Martin, he's lying to you. Don't listen."

"What?" Coombs shook his head. "No, I'm not lying. She's dead. You said it yourself. He heard you."

"I said she fell. Said she was carted away. I didn't say she was dead. Martin deserves to know."

"Don't you dare—"

"Martin, if you're in there, you can still see her. Don't you want to see her?"

"You're lying!" Coombs shouted, but he flinched as he said it, eyes blinking rapidly. "He's lying!" he yelled again, and the rifle aim wavered. "He is! Don't listen!"

"She's alive," Vin pressed, stepping closer. "She's alive. I know she's alive. She survived the fall. I can take you to her. I know where she is."

"No!" Coombs screamed, and, for a second, the innocent eyes of Martin Coombs appeared again. "Vin!" the man cried out, as if in pain. "Can you really—No! No, don't listen! No! Kill him!" And suddenly he was staggering, the rifle swinging wide, away from Vin.

He sprang at Coombs, grabbing the rifle and fighting for control. His shoulder wound exploded in pain, but Vin ignored it, gritting his teeth and tightening his hands around the rifle's barrel. Coombs was smaller, and he wasn't injured, and he fought tooth and nail, trying to wrest back control.

 _Karen fought for the poker, holding it as tightly as she could, trying to wrest it away from Martin. He fought her, shoving and pulling. Neither saw how close they were getting to the edge. She screamed for help as they fought._

Vin felt his left leg slip off the ledge, and he panicked, twisting hard to pull them both away from the sheer drop. His feet lost their footing and he fell hard on his back, Coombs on top of him, still trying to pull the rifle free.

With his ebbing strength, Vin got his feet up against the man's lower body and shoved, flipping them head over heels, so that Vin was suddenly on top. Pushing down hard with one hand to keep the rifle stock down, he let go with the other hand and punched Coombs in the face. Coombs gasped in pain, and Vin hit him again, even harder this time. Coombs let go of the rifle and Vin rolled away, getting his hands around the rifle's stock and bringing it to bear on the other man.

Coombs was already up on one knee, the pistol he'd kept behind his back already pointed at Vin. Blood dripped down his face from his nose and lip, a livid bruise forming on his cheek. He looked more demon-like than ever as he curled his upper lip at the tracker.

"I told you," Coombs growled, "that he was lying."

He pulled back the hammer, and Vin cranked the rifle's lever.

And then they stared at each other, both knowing that to fire was a death sentence.

Coombs huffed. "Now what?" he challenged insanely.

Vin just frowned, and he felt the wetness in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Martin, but now you die."

Coombs tilted his head. Then he frowned and his arm straightened, to pull the trigger.

Except he didn't.

The bullets fired from several sets of guns stopped him, all aimed from behind his back, and hugely loud in the darkening gloom. Vin winced, dropping the rifle as Martin fell to the ground, lifeless.

Vin felt the wetness fall as he looked up at Chris, who strode forward from the trees. Behind him, Nathan ran towards him, putting his own gun away as he skidded to the ground next to Vin to check his bleeding shoulder. A girl followed Chris, her rifle smoking as she glared at Coombs' body, barrel still pointed at the dead man's head. Sheriff Donnelly and a posse of men made up the rear.

"You okay?" Chris asked Vin. In the background, Donnelly ordered his men to check the body.

Vin just shook his head, ignoring the way Nathan was poking at his shoulder. "How…how did you find me?"

Chris shrugged. "We ran into Donnelly on the way to Coombs' homestead. He told us that he had a feeling Martin would revisit the scene where he'd killed his wife. When you all didn't report in, and I didn't either, he and his posse were headed to this ledge. He showed us how to get up here."

Vin lowered his eyes. "I see."

"We also heard a good chunk of the conversation, Vin," Nathan said next to him, pressing the bandage back against his shoulder. "We could hear you all the way down there in the wash. The sound carried." He frowned. "We got here as fast as we could, but the horses all but collapsed under us. They barely made it up to the ledge and we had to leave them. We ran the rest of the way."

Vin just nodded. He'd seen them running towards him. Coombs was just too caught up in his own insanity to hear them behind him.

"He was batshit crazy, weren't he?" the girl with Chris said, looking over at them. "Two sides to him, just like Karen once told me. I thought she was making excuses, but he really was nuts." She sneered. "Well, he's in hell now, thank God."

Vin frowned, wondering who she was, but then decided he didn't care. He could feel his body slumping, losing the fight against his own exhaustion.

"Hey," Nathan said, getting his arms around Vin's torso. "It's going to be okay now."

"No," Vin said. "It's not." He looked up at Chris again. "I screwed up. I've never been so wrong about someone, and my mistake cost Ezra his life."

Chris just stared at him, giving very little away about how he felt, as usual. But Vin could feel the anger inside him regardless, knew him too well to know that this was something he could just pass over. But the next thing Chris said still came as a shock.

"Ezra ain't dead," he said.

Vin's eyes widened as the sun disappeared completely below the horizon.

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TBC…

 _A/N – I know it's a cliché, but this is why Vin and Ezra both couldn't see Coombs' guilt. Hope it wasn't too disappointing...I just like to mess with Vin apparently. And since he's no idea what just happened, I'm not through with the poor boy just yet._


	8. Chapter 8

**OVER THE EDGE  
** **By TIPPER**

M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.

 **CHAPTER EIGHT:** **My Name is JD Dunne**

The horse tore into the town of Dry Ridge, its rider not bothering to slow down as people scattered before it in panic. Chris looked up from his chair in front of the boarding house, resting his whittling knife against his knee. Buck stood up, moving forward to lean against the post at the edge of the boardwalk. Across the street, Josiah excused himself from a conversation with the town's preacher and headed over to join them.

JD expertly wound between the men, women and children hurrying out of the way and glaring at the boy. Chris smiled faintly. JD was easily the best rider out of all of them—there was no chance he'd hit anything—but the people in this town didn't know that.

Arriving at the boarding house, JD pulled hard on the reins, hooves throwing up huge chunks of dirt as the horse skidded to a halt. The mare was sweating, dropping its head to the nearest trough as JD jumped off the animal's back and bee-lined for Buck.

"How is he?" the kid asked, his fear clear even under the road grime.

Buck grimaced, glancing at Chris. Then he shook his head. "No change." In the background, Chris watched Josiah cross his arms and lean against the wall, his expression pained.

JD, though, sighed in clear relief. "Then he's still alive."

Buck smiled, then reached out to pull the boy up against his side, giving him a quick hug. JD instantly ducked out of the touch and looked up at him.

"But no change? Nathan still doesn't know?"

"Neither he nor the doc are promising anything," Buck affirmed, shrugging and looking down at his feet. "He's not woken since..." He looked at Josiah.

"It's been two days," Josiah filled in with a numb voice. "Two days since he's had anything to drink, longer since he's had anything to eat."

"And Vin?"

"Mending," Chris answered. "But slow."

JD pressed his lips together, but, amazingly, didn't ask anything more. He just backed up and looked down the street to where Doctor Pratt's small office sat. He looked restless, unsure of himself, as if not quite knowing what to do now that he was here. Chris sighed.

"JD," he called, and JD looked at him, eyes pleading for guidance. "Go get cleaned up at the bathhouse. Vin's with Ezra right now. You can take his place. Maybe get him to eat something."

JD nodded quickly. "Okay." He hesitated, fingers twitching by his sides. "Anything I should do when I'm there?"

Chris shrugged. "Doc and Nathan say it's good if we talk to Ezra."

"And _Vin's_ with him?" JD gasped, completely guilelessly. "Vin doesn't know how to talk!"

Buck huffed a laugh, but the smile it engendered didn't last. He kept his eyes to the ground. Chris glanced at him, then back at JD.

"Then you'll do a better job of it," he said. "Bathhouse is only a few pennies. We'll get someone else to take care of Bonnie and your stuff."

"Right. Okay. Thanks, Chris, will do." JD smiled gratefully, and jogged towards the building with "BATHS" on it.

"He's got too much energy for someone who just rode a horse all day," Buck noted. He stepped off the boardwalk. "I'll take Bonnie—"

"Actually, if you don't mind," Josiah said, straightening from his lean. "I'd like to do it. Idle hands and all that."

Buck nodded, and Josiah clicked his tongue at the pretty bay mare, getting her attention as he took her reins to lead her to the livery.

Chris, meanwhile, returned his attention to the piece of wood he was whittling.

In the background, he could just make out the sound of wood being sawed behind the undertakers. The man who ran it was building new pine boxes, to replace the two he'd sent recently to Blue River.

And because another one might be needed soon here in Dry Ridge.

Even for Chris, who wanted to believe he was used to it by now, it was a chilling noise.

He felt some of the darkness that had consumed him since seeing Ezra on that road all bloodied and filthy, and he cut into the wood a little too deep, ruining the delicate piece he'd been working on. It would have been the top of a box for a deck of cards.

He put it down. It must have hit the boardwalk a little harshly, because he got a worried look from Buck.

"I need a drink," he said darkly. Without looking at his friend, he levered himself out of the chair and headed to the saloon.

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JD had intended to do as he was told, and get cleaned up first, but the need to see Ezra and Vin was too strong. So he stopped in the bathhouse only long enough to drop a penny in the bucket and wash his face and neck. Shaking water droplets from the ends of his hair, he rubbed the worst of the road dust off with the thin towel he was handed, then headed right back out.

As he reached the doc's office on the edge of town, though, he slowed down. The uneasiness he'd felt earlier crept back in, fear of what he would find, and an even worse fear of not knowing what to do when he got there. He took comfort in the papers in his pocket, though, and kept moving.

He stopped when Nathan stalked out of the Doc's front door and slammed his hands hard against the porch banister in clear frustration.

"Nate?" he called.

The healer looked up, and the anger on his face melted away upon seeing JD. A quirked smile and Nathan headed in his direction, dropping off the end of the porch to meet him in the street.

"Kid," he said, grabbing JD's shoulder and squeezing. "Finally made it, huh?"

"Yeah," JD replied, smiling as brightly as he could considering. "You okay?"

That earned a quick frown, and Nathan pulled his hand back. "Me? Sure. Why?"

"I, uh…" JD was about to mention the healer's attack on the banister, then thought the better of it. "Nothing. How…How's Ezra?"

"Ezra? Doc says he's dying," Nathan answered, his shrug belied by wet, bloodshot eyes. "And it's my fault. That answer your question?"

JD's eyebrows shot up. "What? I thought Coombs was the one—"

"Forget it." Nathan waved a hand, looking away. "I don't know why I said that. It's been a long few days."

JD continued to frown. "No, you meant something by it. Why would-?"

"Look," Nathan interrupted with a sigh, "can we talk later?" He forced a smile. "Saloon, maybe?"

"I…yeah, sure." JD's frown lessened, but the worry didn't. He made a mental note to ask Josiah about Nate later. Right now… He glanced towards the cute house that also housed Doctor's Pratt's office. "So, um, it's okay if I go see Ezra?"

Nathan snorted. "Ask Pratt. He's the real doctor." He glanced at the house. "Vin's in there now, acting like the grim reaper. See if you can get him to eat a sandwich, will you?" He punctuated the last sentence with another shrug, then strode off, shoulders hunched, headed generally back into town.

"Wow," JD muttered, watching him go. "That needs fixing." Had Doc Pratt made Nathan feel like that? If he had, JD was going to have words with the man.

He took his hat off and walked up onto the porch of the office. A soft pair of voices drifted out of the open door, and, as he poked his head in, he saw that they belonged to Doc Pratt and his wife. She was leaning against his desk, talking to the doc in his chair. They stopped talking when he entered. The Doc blinked, then smiled genially.

"JD, yes?" he said, standing up. "I remember you from last time you were all here. Honey, this boy is the last of Larabee's men."

 _Boy_? He tried not to take insult in that, even though it felt like he'd just been called the baby of the family. Just because the others called him "kid"…

Straightening his shoulders, he took the man's hand, and his wife's when she had stood up as well.

"Sheriff Dunne," he corrected, and saw the wife give a patently indulgent smile at that.

"Can I get you some lemonade, sweetie?" she asked.

He hid a wince. "That would be nice. Thank you."

She smiled again and left, going through a small door next to the desk into what appeared to be a hallway. He turned to look towards the other door in the office, the one opposite the desk that he remember led to the two small clinic rooms behind.

"How is Ezra?" JD asked, knowing it was something he kept repeating. Maybe he was hoping to get a better answer each time.

The Doc cleared his throat. "To be honest, son, not well. It's good you're here. I know he'll rest easier knowing his friends are with him when he passes."

JD ignored that statement. "And Vin?"

"Yes, he's here too."

 _Not what I asked_. "But he's recovering?"

The Doc opened his mouth, then closed it again. "He could use more rest," he said finally.

JD grimaced. "What does Nathan say?"

"Dr. Jackson has…Oh, sorry." The Doctor frowned deeply. " _Mr_. Jackson has requested that I take all responsibility for your friends while they are here."

JD's gaze narrowed at the correction, ready to unleash some righteousness on this man. "Why?"

"I genuinely have no idea. He's been insisting on that since he arrived. I don't understand it myself—man has more medical knowledge and skill than most the doctors I've known." Pratt looked squarely at JD. "Perhaps you could speak to him? I know Mr. Tanner would be much easier if Mr. Jackson would take over his care."

JD felt his anger instantly deflate. Whatever was bothering Nathan, it apparently wasn't Pratt. He sighed, glancing at the door again.

"May I go in?"

"Oh, yes. Though it's a small room, so I really don't like more than one person at a time visiting. As I said, Mr. Tanner is in there with him." The Doc lowered his voice slightly, closer to a whisper. "Speaking of, if you can't get him to rest, I would be much obliged if you could get him to eat something. His injury was by no means minor, and he needs to build up his strength. If he doesn't start to take care of himself, you may lose more than one friend this day."

JD's gaze narrowed on the closed door. "I will do what I can," he promised. At the doctor's nod, he headed over to the door, noticing only then that it was slightly ajar.

Vin's quiet voice drifted out to meet him, sounding coarse and brittle.

"…stupid. I know that. But you can't go. It's not fair. Please."

JD frowned, and pushed the door open. It swung wide enough so that he could see the single, narrow bed in the room, and Ezra's pale form lying on top of it beneath a white sheet, still as a porcelain doll. Vin was sitting in one of the two chairs in the room—one on each side of the bed—next to a washbasin sink and a small bookshelf. He turned towards the door, and JD struggled to hide his horror.

Vin looked like death—if anything, he looked a lot worse than Ezra. His color was ashen, with a thick, uneven growth of hair across his jaw. Black circled his eyes and hollowed out his cheeks, while the edges of his nostrils and the lids around his eyes were a livid red. He wore a sling, which was already looking stained though it couldn't be that old, and his shoulders were hunched, as if he were an old man instead of a young man barely into his thirties.

"Damn, Vin," JD said. "What the hell have you done to yourself?"

"Nice to see you too, kid," Vin replied sourly, but there was the briefest hint of a smile at the end. "Everything all right at home?"

"Yeah," JD said, nodding. "Everyone's fine. Folks're worried 'bout you and Ezra, though." _Obviously with good reason_.

Vin just smiled briefly, without conviction. It was almost as if he were too tired to smile.

"And, uh," JD said, "I wasn't really kidding. You don't look good."

Vin snorted. "Let me guess, you're going to tell me to eat something."

"Well, you should! And maybe be in bed?"

Vin shook his head and looked at Ezra again. "Can't. Not 'til he wakes up."

"Why?"

"Don't feel right. He's dying 'cause he can't eat."

"What does that have to do with you?"

"Because the only reason he's like this is 'cause of me."

JD frowned. "The reason he's like that is because of Coombs. And even if it was your fault, he wouldn't want you to—"

"Don't. I heard it already."

JD's eyes narrowed. "Clearly, you didn't. Ezra wouldn't want you to not eat just 'cause he can't."

"If he wakes up and says that to me, fine. But until—"

"Don't be stupid. You know him, Vin. Even if he hated your guts, would he really want you not to eat?"

Vin gave him the fisheye, but JD just crossed his arms stubbornly.

"Oh, come on. Think about it. Ezra ain't that kind of person. He'll shoot you, but he won't starve you. In fact, if he really is mad, he'll want you to be well enough for him to beat up when he comes to. So, frankly, I'd start putting on some weight 'cause he could break you in two right now. Hell, _I_ could break you in two like this, and you know that's just not right."

Vin blinked a few times, and then turned to look at Ezra again. Finally, he sighed. "That actually makes sense." He looked up at JD, smiling weakly. "When did you get so smart?"

JD just shrugged. "Because I know how it feels to screw up so badly you want to give up," he said, Annie's bleeding body forever burned into his memory. "But I also remember what might've happened if I had – to all those people on that stagecoach."

Vin stared at him, eyes widening slightly. "Yeah," he said gruffly, "I remember."

"So, you'll go get something to eat?"

Vin inclined his head. "I'll…yeah." He stood up then, moving slowly as if he were an old man. He made room so JD could get closer, but it was clear Vin didn't really want to give up his spot next to the bed. The kid forced Vin back a little so he could peer more closely at the fading bruises and healing cuts on Ezra's face, including a still livid, carefully stitched into the hairline.

"He hasn't woken at all?"

Vin shook his head. "No. Not since I've been awake, anyway. They said he was awake before, though, but that…that he…" He paused, swallowing. "That he wasn't right in the head."

"Yeah, I got that from the telegram. Amnesia. Such a weird thing—how can you forget who you are?"

"Some might think it a blessing," Vin said quietly. "To be able to forget."

JD glanced at him, and then frowned again. "I wouldn't want to forget. I wouldn't want to lose you guys."

Vin's lips parted slightly, and he lowered his eyes to the floor. "That's not a good idea, kid. Shouldn't get attached. We'll just let you down."

"Oh, you guys let me down all the time," JD replied with a shrug. "Don't change anything." He settled into the chair and rested a hand on Ezra's cold arm. "You're still my family, and family forgives."

Vin watched him for a minute, then, without another word he slipped out of the room. JD heard him say farewell to the Doc and Mrs. Pratt as he went.

"Sheriff?" Mrs. Pratt's voice called softly from the doorway. JD looked up, and she stepped into the room to give him his lemonade, condensation dripping down the glass.

"Thank you," he said, taking it and putting it on the bedside table.

"No," she said, her tone far more deferential now. "Thank you. I overheard what you said. I understand why the others picked you as their sheriff."

JD snorted, but decided not to disabuse her of that notion. It was sort of nice. "Thank you, ma'am."

She nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

For a little while after she'd gone, JD just watched Ezra, finding comfort in watching the other man breathe.

"Hey," he said eventually, "just wanted to say that you need to wake up soon. You're worrying people something awful. The others-none of 'em seem right, and it's sort of your fault. So, wake up, alright?"

He waited a minute, biting his lip. Finally, he sighed. "Well," he said, smiling, "it was worth a shot. Josiah's right, you're just like the rest of us—never do what you're told." He squeezed Ezra's arm, glancing at the hand to see if it moved in response. It didn't.

"Anyway," he added, "I thought you might like to know what's happening at home. I could tell you the stuff that I've been up to, but before I do, I got some letters to read to you first." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick set of envelopes wrapped in string. He undid the knot and started organizing them.

"There's ones here from Mary and Billy, a couple from Inez, Mr. Chambers, the Weathers, the Greenes, um…the Potters…Mr. Winslow at the bank…And one from your mother, though she doesn't know what's happened, so I guess it's just a normal letter." He licked his lips. "Not sure what order'd be best, but what say I leave your mom to last, huh?" He looked at the papers, then picked up the one with Mary's handwriting. "Mary first." He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

"'Hello Ezra,'" he read, "Billy and I just wanted to tell you that we're very worried about you and hope you'll be home soon. Billy is concerned that you won't be back in time to see him before he heads back to school—he says you promised to teach him a new card trick to show his friends. He forgives you, though, if you can't. Still, In case you aren't able to make it in time, he particularly wanted me to tell you about the frog he caught down at the pond. Apparently, it was a very large one, with lots of warts. He named it Buck—I'm sure it was meant fondly. I myself didn't see it, but he brought it into town and hid it in Violet Potter's lunchpail. I think the whole town heard her screams that afternoon…." JD grinned; Mary wasn't wrong. Violet's screams had been _piercing_. "He said he thought you and Vin'd be proud of him. Personally, I think you are both terrible influences, but I wouldn't change any of you for the world…."

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Strange things were happening. He was sitting in a store, watching a girl scream as frog leapt out of a lunchpail. Then he was in a saloon, following a beautiful woman as she handily knocked out miscreants with a frying pan. A moment later, he was listening to a red-headed woman being promoted to assistant manager of a bank. It didn't make a lot of sense.

There was a voice underlying all these images. It was youthful, kind and…and familiar. The voice seemed to narrate what he was witnessing, almost as if the voice was making them come to pass. But the familiarity of it grew as the images it engendered flourished beyond the narration, bits and pieces of a place that he felt like home dribbled into his consciousness like hot fudge dripping down ice cream.

And he saw a young man with a bright smile and black, shaggy hair, watching the world with eyes that trusted and cared for him, for them, for everyone.

" _My name is JD Dunne, and I can ride_."

The young man, the images, the stories, merged together to melt away the confusion he felt, carrying with it the anxiety and pain that worried at him, keeping him in the dark.

And he remembered.

M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**OVER THE EDGE  
** **By TIPPER**

M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.

 **CHAPTER NINE: FIXING WHAT'S BROKEN**

The rotgut they sold at the saloon was a step below the Standish Tavern, but it did what was needed: it got you drunk fast. It had to, otherwise the burn wouldn't be worth it. Chris had put up two fingers as he pushed through the batwings. By the time he reached the bar, two shots had been poured and he'd flipped a half dollar onto the wood. The bartender understood the meaning and put a whole bottle next to the shots. Chris had turned, handed one shot to Buck—who had followed him like a shadow—and walked to the darkest corner with his glass and bottle in hand.

Buck had trailed him there, had downed his shot, and was now hovering. After a while, Chris sighed heavily.

"What is it?" he demanded. "'Cause you're making the locals nervous with your twitching."

Buck snorted, and sat heavily on the chair opposite Chris.

"I wanna know why're you're still mad at me," Buck said.

Chris frowned, genuinely surprised. "I'm not mad at you," he said. It was true, he wasn't.

"You've barely spoken to me."

"I said," Chris stated firmly, "I'm not mad at you." He poured another shot and downed it quickly.

"Because I know I shouldn't've left and I'd understand if—"

He cut himself off abruptly, drawing Chris's gaze away from his shot glass and back to Buck. The other man's eyes had obviously caught something outside the window of the saloon, and his face had completely shut down. Chris turned his head to see what it was, and frowned at the sight of Vin watching them from the boardwalk.

The tracker looked terrible, beaten and wan, the dirty sling on his arm the least bedraggled part of him. He was looking nakedly at Buck, not hiding his profound guilt.

"Damn it," Buck muttered as Vin bowed his head and moved on, away from the window.

"You gotta talk to him sooner or later," Chris said.

"Oh that's rich," Buck snarled, "coming from you." His eyes narrowed. "Is that why you're mad at me? Because I'm mad at him?"

Chris just gave him a look of exasperation. "No."

Buck crossed his arms, clearly not believing him.

Chris sighed. "Look," he said, "I'm not saying you need to be best friends with Vin, but sinners can't be saints, Buck. He made a mistake, but it was an honest one. And he wasn't alone—Ez made the same mistake."

"Nah," Buck said, "he didn't."

Chris frowned. "What do you mean? You said he also believed Coombs?"

"I'm not mad at Vin because of…" He trailed off, and this time it was because he felt the breeze at his back from the door. Chris couldn't help but wonder at that ability—they all had it—the sense that something was behind you that you didn't want to be there.

Chris looked at Vin standing just inside the doors, looking faintly determined. The tracker opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Chris said nothing, just watched as Buck turned around in his chair, spotted Vin, and stood up.

"I'll see ya later," Buck said to Chris, grabbing his hat. He didn't bother to look at Vin, just walked to the bar and through to the back. Vin watched him leave, his expression resigned. With a sigh, he walked over to join Chris, taking the chair Buck had just vacated.

"You gonna leave too?" the young man asked, his tone defensive.

Chris shrugged. "Nope. Got a bottle to finish."

Vin relaxed a little at that. Then reached out his good hand towards the liquor. Chris stoppered the bottle and shoved it across the table. Vin caught it before it could topple.

"Should you be drinkin'?" Chris asked. Vin just stared at him, pulled the stopper out with his teeth, and took a long draw. Chris just arched an eyebrow. "Your funeral."

Vin frowned slightly, putting the bottle back on the table. He stared at Chris for a minute, then picked up Buck's empty shot glass to play with. He was sweating, which was odd considering how cool it was up here.

"Buck's avoidin' me," Vin stated, rolling the small glass around in his fingers.

"Yup," Chris answered.

Vin looked up at Chris, eyes still haunted. "So how come you ain't?"

Chris shrugged. He reached out and pulled the bottle back to his side. Quickly, he poured out two shots into Vin's glass and his own.

"'Cause," Vin added as he stared at the liquor, "you'd have every right."

Chris grimaced slightly, downed the shot, and shrugged again. "You did what you thought was right."

"But it wasn't."

"Yeah." Chris tilted his head, fingers touching the top of his empty shot glass. "It wasn't." He glanced quickly at Vin before turning his gaze outside. "So what are you gonna do about it?"

"What can I do? I can't fix Ezra. Been two days and…and…." His whole expression pinched, like someone was punching him in the gut. "The Doc's says he's already dead. And even if that's weren't true and he did wake up, it's likely that that his mind might be gone."

"I know," Chris said.

Vin winced again, and this time he adjusted the shoulder sling. He downed the shot Chris had poured for him. Chris poured him another.

"So fix what you can fix," Chris said, and he looked deliberately in the direction that Buck had gone.

"How?" Vin asked. "Buck won't even talk to me."

Chris shrugged again and Vin looked down again.

"The others…I think they'll be okay." Vin frowned. "But you, Buck n' me…it feels like we're broken."

Chris stilled, a little confused by that. He didn't think he was angry at Vin, but maybe whatever had created a gulf between him and Buck was also between him and Vin. As he thought about it, he realized Vin was right—he was uncomfortable sitting with the tracker right now. He wanted to leave the table—only laziness was keeping him there. And the fact that he did still have a bottle to finish.

Vin was watching him now, looking uncertain, sweat dripping down his forehead, and Chris frowned more deeply. He put down the bottle and gestured towards the bartender.

A moment later, the man came over, tossing a rag over his shoulder. "Yeah?" he asked.

"You got food?"

"Sure, beef and mutton stew."

"Bread?"

"Baked this morning."

"Bring a couple of bowls and the bread."

"Alrighty. That'll be three bits."

Chris pulled out the change and put in on the table. The bartender collected it and left. Chris turned to look at Vin again, who was staring at him with a slightly puzzled expression.

"We ain't broke," said Chris. " _You're_ broke, 'cause you ain't eaten, so I'm fixin' that. But between us, there's nothing to fix."

"But—"

"Nah, don't. Look," he explained, "you and me, we're easy. Just tell me you'll back me up next time I do something stupid."

Vin narrowed his gaze. "You know I will."

Chris inclined his head and he felt the awkwardness fade already. "Then we're good. And soon as that happens, you'll know it too."

Vin cocked his head, as if measuring those words. But after a time, he nodded; he understood. With Chris, it was the deed, not the words, and the way their lives went, it wouldn't be long before the opportunity came along to make them right.

"Thanks."

Chris picked up the near empty bottle again. "Now, after you eat, you go find Buck."

"What if he don't want to be found?"

Chris huffed a laugh. "Corner him," he said, pouring the last shot of whiskey into the shot glass. He looked up at Vin. "I know where he'll be in a couple of hours, and he won't have a lot of room to maneuver. The same place we all want to be, and are all trying to avoid, 'cept you."

Vin frowned again, the pained look on his face back. "Right."

Chris finished the bottle, finally feeling the edges of the oncoming intoxication eating at his mind. Things weren't right yet, not by a long shot, but he felt slightly less on edge now.

But the edge was still awful close.

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The barn was a good place to be alone, which Josiah had found last time he'd been in Dry Ridge. Not so coincidentally, that time he'd also come to watch over a healing Ezra, and he'd needed the solitude then as much as he did now.

He loved the boy like a son. He knew that, had known it for a while. It had started as a joke, taking on the role partly because of his interest in Maude (damn fine woman) but also because it riled Ezra. At some point, though, it had stopped being funny. And now, whenever Ezra was hurt, it tore at him. He could maintain a relative calm when the others were hurt—he had trust in Nathan and faith that God would see them through—but with Ezra, it took more effort to maintain the calm, the trust, even the faith.

He sighed, bowing his head against Bonnie's long since fully brushed hide. She huffed and shifted away from him, and he lifted his head to smile at her. Her patience with him had grown thin.

"My apologies, my lady," he said, backing away. "You're right. I should have let you alone a while ago."

JD's young mount huffed again, and rocked forward a step closer to the fresh hay, and Josiah turned to drop the brush into the bucket at the edge of the stall. As he stepped out into the center of the livery, tying the rope behind him, he got the intense feeling he wasn't alone.

He turned in a full circle, and stopped when he saw Nathan sitting on a small stool by the entrance, where the livery boy usually sat. His friend was struggling, had been struggling since they'd found Ezra on the side of the road, and Josiah drew in a deep breath. He was needed.

"How are our brothers doing?" he asked, keeping the question as light as he could. Nathan would be expecting the question, and he lifted his head from his chest.

"Vin's improving despite himself," Nathan said. "Ezra…." He winced, turning his head away. "Still has a fever, chills…I don't know how he's still alive. Pratt thought he'd pass last night."

Josiah just breathed through the intense feelings those words brought, and then nodded. "We just have to have faith that—"

"I don't want to hear it," Nathan said, covering his face with his hands. "Faith. What is that? It's just luck, Josiah. Pure luck." He shuddered, and Josiah settled down next to him on a hay bale.

"It's not luck, Nathan."

"Sure it is," the other man said acidly, dropping his hands away from his stricken features. "I keep trying to understand how this even happened. This wasn't supposed to be hard. It wasn't supposed to be trouble. A prisoner transport, not of some famous gang leader or wealthy high-brow, but of a broken man who'd killed his wife and run away. Three of us-of _us_ -who think we're so smart and so strong, always doing the right thing and fighting the right fight…" Nathan looked up at Josiah. "All it took was an argument, a moment's lapse in attention, and now everything's and everyone's…" He frowned, as if struggling for the right word. "…Broken."

Josiah couldn't disagree. He'd felt it too. But while he understood some why Chris, Vin and Buck were acting like they were, he was less sure about Nathan.

"So what's broken about you?" he asked the healer.

Nathan blinked, sniffing. "Nothing really. Just that I know for a fact that I'm a fraud now."

That caused Josiah a moment's pause. "How so?" he asked carefully.

"I figured it out," Nathan continued, looking towards the darkened end of the livery. "Luck's all that's been on my side 'til now, pretending I could keep any of you alive. It wasn't skill or talent, it was luck."

"Nathan—"

"Oh sure," the healer snarled, "I can dig out a bullet and sew up a wound and try to stave off infection. I can brew some herbs and hope it takes away a headache. But, let's face it, mostly I've managed this far on chance." He slumped even more. "But it's all bullshit."

Josiah frowned. It didn't take a genius to know what had brought this on. "Is this because you think you should have gotten Ezra here earlier?"

"Oh, I _know_ I should have gotten him here earlier," Nathan sneered. "But it's more than that. I kept making choices, whether to move him or keep him still, whether to keep him warm or keep him cool, whether to stay with him until he got to the Doc's or go with Chris. The whole time I was just guessing, praying that my luck wouldn't run out. But she's left me, shown me for the faker that I am, and Ezra's paying the price for my arrogance."

Josiah's eyes narrowed. "Nathan," he growled, "If you keep on like that, I really am going to break your back this time."

Nathan turned to look at Josiah, his eyes wide. "What?"

Josiah stood up, incensed by how stupid his best friend could be sometimes, and Nathan actually leaned away from him.

"Do you want to know what luck is?" the preacher asked. "It's fickle and thoughtless and unpredictable. None of those words apply to what you do, or have done, or will do. If you'd hadn't been there when we found Ezra, he'd be dead. That I know. More than likely, we would have put him on a horse, made him follow us around until he collapsed. Or maybe Chris would have made him go with Buck, and he'd have died on the trail. You were the only one who knew how bad off he really was, and, as soon as you saw him turn, you made sure we got him to the one place he could get help. That's not luck, that's skill. You knew the signs, and you acted on them. And that ability to 'sew up a wound' that you so easily dismissed? I am equally certain that's the main reason I am alive. It if weren't for you, Buck and I would be buried out at the Seminole Village right now. So don't insult me by attributing that to luck—because if you do, I will smack you so hard upside the head you'll wake up next week."

Nathan just blinked.

"And, for the record," Josiah said, "I don't consider any of what happened to bring us all here to be luck either. Was it luck that Ezra sent that telegram to Chris when he, Buck and Coombs were here in Dry Ridge, asking us to ride out to be back up? He wrote that he knew Donnelly hadn't told us everything, because of something Sheriff Meeks here told him, and that he thought they might need back up. Now, we don't know what he was referring to exactly, but he was right about Donnelly. If the sheriff had told us about Coombs killing his tracker, Vin and Ezra would've been more on guard. But because of Ezra's instincts about people, we got on the road a whole day sooner than we might've."

Nathan frowned, lowering his eyes as he thought that through.

"And was it luck that got us to the campsite so quick? Or to where Vin was? Chris's skill got us not only to Ezra's likeliest location after that telegram was sent, but to the campsite where it all went down, and then to the place where he'd taken Vin. That wasn't luck—that's cleverness. And Buck convincing the Eatons to go with him, to help, that wasn't luck either. That's Buck's ability to talk to people. Without them, we'd have never found Vin. And then there's Vin's ability to track something that happened over a week ago, and his resourcefulness to stall long enough for you to get there once he knew something was wrong and stop Coombs—that wasn't luck either."

Nathan sighed softly, but Josiah could tell he was listening. Josiah also realized he'd had his voice raised, so he took a calming breath, and made sure to lower it.

"But I won't deny," Josiah said, softer now, "that luck is always going to be a factor in our lives. Hell, even Ezra will tell you that luck is real, despite all those nights he spends trying to defeat it at the card table. Luck is what hid Coombs' demons from Vin—who usually knows people better than any of us—and what really created this whole mess. Luck is what sent Ezra tumbling down a hill after he woke up, when he might just as well have stumbled deeper into the campsite. And luck is what put Donnelly in Chris' path on his way to Vin. All that is true. But don't for a second think that the decisions you, Chris, Buck, Ezra or Vin made were made based on luck. Ezra's still alive because you made me bring him here. Vin's still alive because you found him in time. And they're both going to be fine because of the care you provided."

Tears were running down Nathan's face now, but when he looked up at Josiah finally, he was smiling softly.

"You really believe all that?" he asked the preacher.

"I told you," Josiah replied, "I have faith. Just so happens, that faith is in my friends and the fact that they're all very good at what they do."

Nathan huffed a laugh. Standing, he reached out a hand and Josiah took it firmly in his own.

"Thank you," Nathan said, placing his other hand on top of Josiah's and gripping them together. "You always seem to know what to say."

Josiah just smiled, and they let go their hands. Nathan smiled one more time before turning and walking out of the livery, his back straighter than it had been in days.

Josiah looked down at the stool Nathan had vacated and then sat on it, sighing heavily. Oddly, that little conversation made him feel better as well.

But if he were being honest, he knew the solace he'd just provided both of them was resting on some very thin ice, and all it would take was one thing to shatter it completely. He closed his eyes against that fear.

"You'd better wake up soon, son," he whispered to the rafters, "for all our sakes."

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A few hours after JD's arrival, Buck was sitting next to Ezra's bed, doing a horrendous job of trying to clean the mud off the torn red jacket with a brush. Still, he was putting all his energy into it, as if, were the jacket mended, so would the gambler be that wore it.

When the door creaked open, he glanced up, expecting to see the Doc or Nathan. He scowled when he saw Vin.

"Doc said one at a time," Buck groused. "I only just got here. You can kvetch over him later."

"Kvetch?" Vin repeated. "What does that mean?"

Buck snorted. "Means pray, I suppose. Beg for forgiveness. Whatever you want." He looked back down at the jacket, sighed, and put it to one side, feebly attempting to fold it at the same time. He stood. "Fine. He's all yours. Just don't take too long. I'm working on getting this jacket clean before—"

"Doc says you can stay."

That stopped Buck, and he turned to peer owlishly at Vin. "Say what now?"

Vin drew in a deep breath and shut the door behind him. Then he locked it from the inside.

Buck snorted. "So, now you're trying to corner me? You of all people should know what animals do when they're cornered."

"You're not going to do nothin'. Not with him there. You could hurt him."

"Hurt him." Buck almost snarled. "That's almost funny, Tanner, considering he's barely alive as it is."

Vin visibly flinched at those words, ducking his head. "I know. And I'm sorry about it."

"Good," Buck glared at him. "Maybe you'll learn something." And with that, he walked around the bed, clearly intending to go to the door and leave.

"Wait, please," Vin said, backing up to stop him before he could get there, a hand in front of Buck's chest. "Wait."

Buck arched his eyebrows and crossed his arms. "Why?"

"Because we need to talk."

Buck snorted. "Oh, what, now you breaking up with me?"

Vin blinked. "What?"

Buck rolled his eyes, but shook his head. "Bad joke. It's nothing. What do you want to talk about?"

Vin frowned, looking almost confused to have actually won Buck's attention. Buck tilted his head, waited about ten seconds, then shook his head. Turning, he walked back around the bed and picked up Ezra's jacket.

"Talking usually means you have to use words, Vin. So, if you don't plan on using any, I'd appreciate it if you left me alone with him."

"I'm sorry," Vin said, "I know. I'm just not…" He swallowed and walked to the chair on his side of the bed, grabbing the back of it tightly. "I'm not good at this, and I needed to figure out…" He paused, eyebrows pinching. "I mean, I came because…" He trailed off again, shaking his head. When he drew in a new breath to try again, Buck held up a hand.

"For Christ's sake," Buck begged, "just stop." He sat down on the chair again, drawing the red jacket across his lap. "If I have to wait for you to finish a sentence before you get to the point, I'll likely shrivel up and die." He stared evenly at Vin. "I'm guessing you're here because you want me to make you feel better about the monumental screw-up that you made. Am I right? Because you did. You screwed up. And I don't know if you should be forgiven for that. What do you think?"

Vin stared at him, clearly taking that in. Finally, he nodded and let go the back of the chair. "Right. You're right. I don't. I'm sorry." He turned to leave.

"Of course," Buck said quickly, "I _am_ going to forgive you."

Vin froze, his back tense.

Buck sighed. "Hell, Vin, I forgave you the minute I knew you were in trouble. I mean, there really wasn't much for me to be mad about anyway, 'cept that one thing."

Vin turned to look at him, frowning. "That one thing that did this, you mean?" He nodded at Ezra, lying quietly on the bed, only the faint movement of his chest showing him to even be alive.

"Yeah. That. I'm not saying it's okay," Buck said. "Hell knows, it's not okay. Not if Ezra don't…" He pursed his lips, and then shook his head. "I'm just telling you that, for my part, you're already forgiven." He peered at Vin for a moment, seeing the man's indecision, and pointed to the chair. "Sit."

Vin continued to frown, but he did what he was told.

"But," Buck said, "if you were wondering why I was still avoiding you, it was because I wanted to try to be mad at you a little longer. I thought I deserved a little righteous anger, you know?"

"Yeah," Vin replied, his tone a little tentative. "I get that."

Buck smirked. "The truth is, it's not like I haven't screwed up once or twice." He started wiping dirt off the jacket again as he spoke. "And while this may be pretty new to you, it's not to me. After all, I can only think of one thing you've screwed up since I've known you, and that was trying to run off with a married woman." Vin pouted at that, and Buck flashed a grin. "I mean, let's face it, I try to do that once a week."

Vin's pout faded, and Buck shrugged.

"All I'm saying is," Buck continued, "I'm used to being on your side of the bed, so to speak." He gestured to the fact that they were on either side of Ezra's sleeping form. "And I don't know if I've ever really asked your forgiveness for the things I done, the way you are now." At Vin's slightly confused look, Buck dropped his eyes to Ezra's face, recalling too vividly how they both once talked about Vin behind his back a long time ago. "For not, say, backing you with Mosely."

"Mose—?"

"Yeah. See, the reason I think that Ezra's really lying in this bed right now is that you were right about Mosley. Me and Ezra, we had it wrong. We should have trusted you, listened to what you were trying to tell us about them Indians, since you knew 'em and we didn't. But we didn't. And I regret that, and so did…so _does_ Ezra."

Vin shook his head, clearly not understanding. "But you were there when you were needed. You never tried to stop me."

"Yeah," Buck said, looking up at him again, "but we didn't help you either, not until it was almost too late."

Vin was frowning now. "Buck-"

"What I'm trying to say is…" Buck paused to draw in a deep breath. "That I know how you felt now. Because now I'm the one who was right, and you were the one who didn't listen."

That earned a measure of surprise. "What?"

"You know Indians, Vin, because you grew up with 'em. You know their ways. Well, I grew up with men like Coombs. That's what _I_ know—those are the people and monsters _I_ know. I saw my mother beaten. I saw her friends beaten. I helped nurse back to health more girls than I ever want to remember, because I'd probably go insane. And I told you what I saw on Coombs' hands, the marks, the signs. But you didn't listen to me."

Vin grimaced, and Buck nodded.

"That's why I was mad, Vin. I don't know if you just think I'm a total idiot, or untrustworthy, and maybe because of Mosely, I deserve to be ignored some. But when it comes to men like Coombs, you need to listen to me. That's all I'm asking. You let his hands free even after I told you not to, after I told him not to let you. You did, didn't you?"

Vin stared at him for a long moment, and then, slowly, he nodded. "Ez didn't know. He may have agreed with me, but he did say to keep Coombs tied, because that's what you wanted. I untied him when Ez went to get water."

"I figured." Buck crushed the red fabric beneath his fists. "Ez spent most of trip trying to walk the line between us." He glanced at the man, then frowned. "I owe him an apology for putting him in that position, as do you." He looked up at Vin again. "And you owe me one for not listening to me."

"Won't happen again," Vin promised. "You have my word."

Buck smiled wryly. "Good." He looked at the jacket on his lap. "Well," he said, "I'm glad that's over with."

"You're not the only one," a voice whispered.

Like a shot, Buck and Vin were on their feet, staring down at the pair of tired green eyes looking up at them.

"Water?" Ezra croaked.

"Water!" Buck snapped at Vin, "get him water!"

Vin turned around in a full circle before pointing behind Buck. "It's behind you!"

"Oh, right!" Buck tossed the jacket on the bed, not seeing the annoyed look that earned him from its occupant, and grabbed at the pitcher and cup next to the window behind him. Pouring messily into the cup, he soon had it pressed to Ezra's lips where Vin had propped him up some.

Ezra drank a few sips, then frowned, pulling his head back to blink at them both.

"You are both," he whispered, "awful. I fall asleep for five minutes, and you're still arguing."

"Five minutes?" Vin repeated, grinning foolishly. "Been a bit longer than that, Ezra."

But Ezra was looking at Vin's sling, frowning slightly. "What happened to you?" he asked. Then he sniffed, frowning even more. "And when was the last time you bathed?"

"Ez, Ez, wait," Buck said before Vin could answer, drawing the gambler's attention back to him. "Do you know who I am?"

Ezra's expression was almost comical. "Seriously?" he whispered.

"Yeah. I'm serious, who am I?"

Ezra frowned, clearly annoyed. "You're the pain in the ass rake who managed to beat me at poker last week. Still not sure how you did that, though I think the woman in the red chiffon had something to do with it. She seemed far too interested in my cards."

"Oh my god," Buck said, his relief so profound he almost wanted to cry. He looked at Vin. "You get the doc and Nathan. I'll make sure he doesn't fall asleep."

"Nathan?" Ezra repeated, and he seemed to take in his surroundings for the first time as Vin gently put him back against the pillow. "Wait, where are we? And…ugh…." His whole face contorted in obvious pain. "What the hell happened to me?"

"Well, first, you're in Dry Ridge," Buck said as Vin patted Ezra's arm one more time before practically sprinting for the door.

"Dry…what happened to taking Coombs to Blue River?"

"Long story," Buck said. "Want some more water?"

Ezra nodded trying to sit up. He instantly grimaced, lifting a hand to rest against his still healing torso. "Jesus," he muttered, "Was I run over by a herd of buffalo? It certainly feels like it."

Buck laughed. "Honestly? No. You fell."

"Fell? Off what?"

"A cliff."

"Was I pushed?"

"No. You just fell."

Ezra just stared at him. Then his gaze narrowed. "Standishes do not 'just fall' off cliffs, Mr. Wilmington. What really happened? What did you two unruly miscreants do to me?"

Buck just laughed as Vin burst back into the room with Doc Pratt at his heels.

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 _To Be Concluded in Chapter 10…(thanks for hanging in there with me!)_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N – this is the last part, folks…._

 **OVER THE EDGE  
** **By TIPPER**

M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.

 **CHAPTER TEN: COMING BACK FROM THE EDGE**

"You really don't remember anything?" JD asked, pushing Ezra out onto Doc Pratt's porch in a wheelchair the next morning.

"As I've told everyone else," Ezra said peevishly, "the last thing I recall clearly is Vin asking me to get water at the campsite." He looked up at the kid. "Now can we please get back to why you thought it was alright to commit a federal offense?"

JD blushed through his grin. "I thought you'd want to know what your mother wrote. I never meant—"

"If you repeat anything she wrote in that letter to another soul, I will shoot you."

"No doubt," Josiah said, stepping up onto the porch to join them. "Just be glad Rachel Jackson didn't write you last week, son. You'd likely have to shoot JD just to keep him from telling Nathan what she wrote."

JD's eyes widened at the thought, but Ezra just frowned up at the preacher.

"Those letters are perfectly innocent, Mr. Sanchez."

"Of course they are," Josiah said. "That's why you never read them to us."

"What conjecture! I thought that was against your principles to so malign a lady of—"

A loud snort and snore interrupted him, and the three men looked towards the fourth occupant of the Doc's porch. Vin was deeply ensconced in one of the porch chairs, fast asleep under some blankets, his shift in his sleep had caused the snort. JD wheeled Ezra next to Vin—the gambler didn't look too thrilled by the proximity to the snoring—then settled on the porch swing. Josiah sat next to the kid.

"Well, to get us away from Josiah's wicked rumormongering," Ezra said, turning away from his study of Vin, "how fares the rest of our motley crew?"

Josiah grinned. "Nathan and Buck are both fast asleep, like our Vin there. Chris is taking a ride somewhere outside of town. All in all," he said, "they're all getting better. Thanks to you."

Ezra arched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure what I did."

Josiah just smiled again, and looked towards the people moving around in town.

"Shame you don't remember," JD said then, sounding disappointed. "I'd love to know what it felt like to have amnesia. I mean, I can't even imagine-"

"I pray you never find out," Josiah said seriously. "Ah, look, here he comes."

Chris barreled up the road, aiming straight for the Doc's house, pulling hard on his horse's reins to stop the animal sharply.

"Ezra!" he shouted, "What the hell?"

Ezra blinked, a flood of strange memories overwhelming him briefly. When he came back to himself, Josiah and JD were both standing in front of him, shielding him from Chris. Josiah was arguing.

"…Needed the fresh air," Josiah was saying. "He's been in the bed for so long, he was getting sore."

"Plus, he wanted to come outside," JD added. "Look you can plainly see that he's doing—"

"Enough," Chris snapped, and Ezra felt those dark eyes measuring him. "I don't know what's more idiotic, him out of bed, or _him_ still not eating properly." He nodded at Vin, who had woken with the commotion and was looking back and forth between Chris and the others. "You know what? It's your own damned problem. Do what you like."

And with a harsh "hyah" Chris kicked the horse and took off, headed deeper into town.

Ezra blinked a few times, feeling the awkwardness settling on the four of them like a blanket. Swallowing down his unease, he looked at Vin. Vin, in turn, was looking at him.

"Why aren't you eating?" Ezra asked curiously. Josiah and JD as one turned to look at Vin for the answer.

Vin gave a small shrug. "Not been hungry."

"He's not eating properly 'cause he wants you to forgive him first," JD said bluntly, crossing his arms. "I tried to explain to him that you wouldn't want him to starve, but—"

"JD," Vin admonished, blushing inside the still sallow skin.

"This is because you untied Coombs?" Ezra asked. "I think I recall you saying something about it to Buck during your argument."

Vin's blush deepened. "Maybe."

"Mr. Tanner, I'm sorry to ruin what I'm certain was some very impressive wallowing by my deathbed, but I untied Coombs when you went to hunt down dinner earlier that evening. He helped me with the horses. I tied him back up when I heard you returning."

Vin stared.

"Of course, I didn't leave my gun lying out in the open for him to snatch while my back was turned, but then, my guns aren't oversized and uncomfortable to wear."

Vin stared some more.

"So, nothing to forgive really. Except to, perhaps, think of getting a less cumbersome weapon?"

Vin blinked, looked at Josiah, then JD, then Ezra again.

"Huh," he said finally. "You know," Vin added, smiling faintly, "I wouldn't mind some breakfast after all." He tossed off the blanket he was covered with and struggled to his feet, waving off Josiah's offer of a hand.

"I'll go with you," JD said, already stepping off the porch. "I could use a second breakfast—smelled pancakes at the big hotel." Vin used JD's shoulder as leverage to step down into the dirt, and the two headed slowly off towards the center of town.

Josiah sat down on the swinging chair again and looked at Ezra.

"Was that a lie?" he asked, once Vin was definitely out of earshot. "About untying Coombs?"

Ezra smiled.

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Buck found Chris in the saloon a little while later, already half a bottle down. Chris knew how it looked—it wasn't even noon yet. He gritted his teeth as Buck sat down opposite him—the ladies' man shooing away a pretty waitress as he did so—a sure sign that Chris wasn't going to like this conversation.

"What?" Chris growled.

"We didn't finish our conversation yesterday."

"The one where you think I'm mad at you?" Chris snorted. "I already told you, I'm not—"

"Then what's with the attitude?" Buck demanded. "JD said you near took everyone's heads off this morning for no good reason."

Chris glared at him, hating that it seemed to have no impact on the man anymore. Buck had reached the point where he just didn't care. So Chris drowned another shot and looked out the window without answering the question.

"Come on, Chris. Talk to me."

Chris snarled and turned his head away.

"I'm not going to go away." Buck leaned back and crossed his arms. "You know me."

 _Jesus Christ._ "Damn it, Buck."

"Just tell me why you're so riled at me and—"

"Fine! I thought you were dead, you asshole." Chris downed another shot for emphasis. And also to avoid looking at Buck.

A moment's hesitation from across the table, then, "What?"

Chris huffed, annoyed. "When I saw Ezra on the side of the road, the way he looked…" His gaze narrowed, seeing that image again, a bloody, torn man in Ezra's normally handsome red coat watching them ride up to him without a word. "There's no way you or Vin would have allowed that to happen. So my first thought, my only thought, was that you must be dead."

Chris glanced sideways at Buck, to see the other man watching him guilelessly.

"But," Buck said, "I wasn't."

"And then I was furious at you for letting Ezra get nearly killed, and Vin being taken by that madman."

"But I didn't do that either. I explained—"

"I know." Chris stared at the bottle of rotgut in his hand, wondering why he wasn't just drinking straight from the bottle. "And then I just…I was….I guess I was just angry." He squinted, as if the right words might appear on the label. "I didn't know," he said finally. "I didn't know how important it was to me…that you not be dead. I don't like it. Anger was easier." There. He'd said it. Now maybe Buck'd go away.

Buck, though, was a pain in the ass.

"Let me get this straight," Buck said slowly, "you're mad, not at me, but at yourself, because you were _worried_ about me?"

"And Vin and Ezra, yes."

"No, no," Buck said, tapping the table with his finger. "This is about _me_. You're saying you _care_ about me. That's why you're so mad at me!"

Something in his tone had Chris eyeing him again, and he growled at the tiny smile on Buck's lips.

"And that's why you apparently near took Ezra's head off this morning, right? Because you care about him too? If Vin hadn't been asleep when you started, would you have yelled at him too?" Buck's eyes widened. "Yes! Yes, you would have! Do you know what that means?"

"Don't you dare…" Chris warned, the horror of what Buck was insinuating hitting him in the chest.

"You love me!" Buck grinned. "Hell, you love all of us! That is so adorable! JD is going to flip his hat when he hears it. You just know he's going to start insisting that we all start writing sonnets and poems about it all. Vin might even try to do it, heaven help us all."

Chris erupted out of his seat, leaning over the table to glare at Buck. "You are not saying nothing to no one, Bucklin."

"Aww, look at you. So full of feelings and emotions and—"

"I will kill you if you keep talking."

"No, you won't." Buck grinned and stood up. "Maybe I'll tell Josiah first, he's always going on about how we're all brothers and stuff. A family. He'll be all—"

Chris threw the bottle at him, and Buck narrowly dodged being hit as it smashed into the wooden wall behind him. Buck turned and stared at the wall, then back at Chris. He crossed his arms again and pouted.

"Now, is that any way to treat your family?"

Chris pulled out his gun and rested it on the table. "Get outta here, Buck. I'm not going to tell you again."

Buck just stared at him, lips still quirking against the urge to grin.

"Alright," he said finally. "I'll git. And I won't tell." He smiled then. "On one condition."

Chris' gaze narrowed. "What?"

"You freaked out Ezra. Go unfreak him out."

Chris frowned, not understanding. "How did I freak him out?"

"I think he's remembered some of what happened when he had amnesia. He's hiding it, but he's been looking at us all a little weird since this morning."

"And that's my fault?"

"I'm thinking, yeah. That yelling you did. He was fine before that."

Chris snapped his mouth shut, his frown deepening. Fact was, he hadn't been to see Ezra except to check on him from the door, just to see him awake and smiling at the others. Once he'd seen that, he'd been avoiding him, except for this morning.

"Chris?"

"Yeah," he said finally. "Fine. I'll go in a while."

"How about now," Buck suggested. "He's awake. Might not be so awake in a while."

Chris sighed. "Fine." He stood, glared at Buck once more for good measure, and walked out of the saloon.

He could feel it inside now, the fear, the worry, and how much he hated both feelings. He tried to bury it under his anger, but they just wouldn't let go.

By the time he'd stalked to the Doc's house on the edge of town, he felt ready to drive a fist into the wall.

Ezra was on the porch still, playing solitaire on a small folding table set next to his chair. As Chris approached, the gambler looked up. Briefly, there was fear on his face, but it was soon gone, hidden behind a smile as false as Chris' anger.

Because it _was_ false. Chris knew that the second he saw the fear on his friend's face, knowing he was the cause of it. He suddenly remembered how afraid Ezra had been of him when he'd had amnesia—Ezra was obviously still feeling that, even if he may not understand why.

God, what an ass he'd been. He slowed down, feeling uncertain.

"Mr. Larabee," Ezra called, looking concerned now. "Are you ill?"

"What?" Chris asked.

"You have stopped in front of a doctor's office, and now look all but frozen in place. It's a little strange. You know, our inestimable Nathan is just inside, I could call—"

"No," Chris said. "I'm fine. I'm not here to see Nathan."

"Vin, then. He's actually over at—"

"I came to see you."

Ezra blinked, then frowned. "Right. Now I really am worried, because that's very out of character." He put his hands to the wheels of the chair and started turning away from the table. "Why don't I just call to Nathan and—"

"I was looking for a game," Chris said quickly.

That stopped Ezra's movements.

"There's no one at the saloon," Chris explained, hoping the lie wasn't too obvious, "so I thought I'd come out here to play a game with the best card-player I know."

"You…" Ezra blinked. "You want to play cards with me?"

"Yeah."

Ezra frowned, gaze narrowing with suspicion. "Why?"

"Why not? Thought you liked cards."

Ezra smirked. "I know misdirection when I hear it, Mr. Larabee. I happen to make a living off of it most days. Try again."

Chris stared at him, thinking quickly. And then, finally, he shrugged. "Maybe I just to play cards to thank you."

The suspicion remained. "Thank me for what?"

"For what you did for Vin and Buck, trying to keep the peace between them. I know the whole story now, and I wanted to tell you that you did good."

Ezra snorted. "Good? I almost died. And Vin almost died. And Coombs _did_ die. How is that good?"

"Yeah. I never said you were good at keeping the peace, I just said you _did_ good."

Chris smiled then, unable to help himself.

Ezra huffed a laugh. "Right." He shook his head. "Oddly, I think you mean that."

"I do. So…how about that game?"

"You don't need to—"

"I want to. Come on. I heard Buck beat you last week. Maybe you're losing your edge?" Chris grinned. "You chicken, Ezra?"

That did it. All suspicion disappeared, replaced by sheer arrogance. That was the Ezra he knew.

"You're on, Mr. Larabee." He turned the chair and quickly swept up the cards into a pile. "As for losing my edge," he glanced at the gunslinger, "your wallet's about to find out the answer to that question."

Chris just smiled and grabbed one of the other chairs on the porch, setting it on the other side of the table. Ezra shuffled one-handed, though the fingers on his still broken arm twitched to help, and started dealing.

He grinned roguishly at Chris as the cards landed on the table in front of each of them, and Chris laughed.

The others joined them over the course of the day, and everyone played long after Ezra and Vin fell asleep in their chairs on the porch, still inside the circle of the Seven.

 **END**

M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.M7.

 _A/N - Thank you all so, so much for reading my story and for leaving reviews! I'd forgotten how much I loved them (I've been checking my email obsessively). They're totally inspiring. You all win at awesomeness!_

 _If anyone's curious, the towns (and sheriffs) in this story are borrowed from another one of my stories called "The Betting Man," which is revised and over at AO3. We never met Sheriff Donnelly of Blue River in that story, but he was mentioned, and we met Sheriff Meeks of Dry Ridge and Doc Pratt, albeit briefly. I really like those towns and people, so they ended up in this one. Most of the other fanon names are from other stories of mine._

 _So, did Ezra lie about untying Coombs?_


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